» • 






!QXV\\\\\\\\\\\\V 







LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 




"'SING ME A LYRIC,' THE MAIDEN SIfiHKO " 



[See page 3 



WAYSIDE POEMS 



BY 

WALLACE IJRUCE 

AUTHOR OP 1 "OLD HOMESTEAD POEMS " 



ILLUSTRATED 




NOV 24 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

1 895 



An. 



»» 



Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers. 
All rights reserved. 



TO HER 

WHO CROWNS THESE 

WAYSIDE DREAMS 

WITH HAPPINESS 

flbg mite 

THESE POEMS ARE 
LOVINGLY DEDICATED 



PREFACE 



Once more beside the familiar well-cnrb and its cool-dripping bucket, 
after years of wandering and sojourning in many lands ! 

It has been the author's fortune, since the publication of his Old 
Homestead Poems, to realize an early dream — to dwell for a time in 
the land of his fathers, and muse amid the historic shrines of the fairest 
city in Europe. 

The favorable reception of his first volume on both sides of the At- 
lantic, and of the Clover and Heather edition by Blackwood tfc Sons, of 
Edinburgh and London, has prompted him to present these later Verses 
by the Wayside. 

Many are associated with happy friendships, formed during a delight- 
ful period of consular life at Edinburgh, many more with scenes and 
love-lit memories of our own country, with here and there a lyric-dream 
belonging to every land and every age. 

Principal Fairbairn, of Oxford University, has kindly said that several 
are " fragrant of both soils," and that it was " a happy thought to wed, 
through Scott and Irving, the Tweed and the Hudson." To bind the 
world in sweeter relationship is the highest province of literature. 

Born for the most part of living pictures and eventful occasions, these 
poems possess a personal history, notably illustrated by " The Auld Brig's 
AYclcome " at the unveiling of the Burns Statue at Ayr, and by " Uno de 
Mille" on the shores of Lake Como, the incident of which was set forth 
in the following paragraph accompanying its publication in Blackwood'' 's 
Magazine : 



vi Preface 

" One April day in 1890 the author saw a steamer draped in black bring 
home to Como for burial a soldier of the immortal One Thousand of 
Garibaldi. By a strange and dramatic coincidence his comrade, an elo- 
quent scholar of Como, died a few hours later at his desk, while preparing 
a tribute to his memory, and on the next day his own body was borne in 
the opposite direction across the lake to his own kindred." 

If this volume discovers new friends who might care to see what other 
work in this direction has been accomplished in the few leisure moments 
of a busy life, the author can say with unaffected modesty that it may 
be found in the pages of Old Homestead Poems. 

W. B. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

ONE WORD 3 

love's DIAT 5 

THE MILKY WAY 7 

REPENTANCE 8 

OLE BULL'S CHRISTMAS 9 

IMPERIAL TIME 14 

DESTINY 15 

ENVIRONMENT 17 

THE FLOWER- KEY 18 

NIAGARA 20 

alpine spring 23 

inch-cailliach, loch lomond 25 

the auld brig's welcome 27 

de funiak lake 34 

"uno de mille" 35 

Columbia's garland 40 

merrie england 46 

the old organ (1754) 49 

in clover and heather 52 

two argosies 54 

epilogue 55 

at conway castle 56 

ON GUARD 59 

TANTA.LLON CASTLE 61 

AT LINLITHGOW 63 

A ROYAL ROUTE 65 

PARIS 68 

FOURTH OF JULY AT BANNOCKBURN 71 

ANNIVERSARY OF ROBERT BURNS 75 

WITH HEARTY GRASP 77 



viii Contents 

PAGE 

Columbia's son 81 

the protest of the immortals 85 

to a brither chiel across the sea 89 

to a ladies' art club 94 

the sunny south 97 

nobby island, river st. lawrence 98 

to professor john stuart blackie 100 

the ettrick shepherd 102 

THE CLASS IVY Ill 

TO "strathesk" Ho 

BRETHREN ALL 119 

"TO ANE AND a'" 121 

TO AN EDINBURGH FRIEND 123 

IN FAITH 124 

THE ETERNAL 126 

THE HARP OF TOM MOORE 127 

LOOK AT THE MOON, MY SWEETHEART 129 

A BLARNEY ROMANCE 131 

GLENGARIFF 136 

POMPEII AT EVENING 138 

THE TRAFALGAR LION 141 

THE DEMORALIZED POET 143 

TO THE SCOTCH-IRISH CONGRESS 144 

PAGANINI'S VIOLIN 145 

DREAMLAND AND LOVELAND 146 

SO SWEET THE DREAMS 147 

SMILE AND WAIT 148 

OF AGE 149 

LOVE'S LITANY 150 

IN WHISPERS 151 

THE CENTURY'S SONG 152 

THE HOMESTEAD WELL 157 

THE GLOAMING 163 

LIFE'S PAUSES 164 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



PACE 

"'SING ME A LYRIC,' THE MAIDEN SIGHED" Frontispiece 

"beaming face, with locks of silver" 11 

"i wandered down a brooklet bubbling bright" 15 

" proud swaying pendant " 21 

"i wander down the footpath, in memory here to-day " ... 24 

"the auld brig hails wl' hearty cheer " 27 

"since tam o' shanter rode this way " 29 

"she heard him by the sounding shore " 31 

" from highland crag to lowland dell " 33 

"the dawning day touches the mountains cold and gray " . . 35 

"home, by her rippling waters blue " 37 

" his honest face had power to charm " 41 

"he strikes the shackle from the slave " 43 

"deep-wooded parks where lovers dreamed " 47 

"sing of her lakes and quiet dells " 51 

"so here's to the clover and heather " 53 

"thy massive walls and battlements are bark" 57 

"while lapsing wave and crag keep faithful tryst" .... 61 

"on stately boulevard where bliss enthralls" 69 

" to mountains ribbed with golden seams " 73 

" crowned in the heart of washington " 79 

"to walter scott in edinboro' town " 83 

" stair number one that stayed his feet " 91 

" i saw auld alloway's roofless kirk " 93 

" with these islands to play at hide and seek " 99 

"o'er far-away mountains its music is borne " 105 

" and dreams for a moment of scotia's burns " 109 

"BY MANY A stream" 118 

" BY DEAR KILLARNEY " 130 

" AT CASTLE BLARNEY " 133 



x Illustrations 

PAGK 

"a morning at glengar^f" 136 

" and make pompeii, paradise, of thee " 139 

"THROUGH YONDER CLOUDS BEHOLD THE rift" 153 

"THE MEADOW-WALK IS STILL THE SAME " 157 

*' AGAIN THE ORCHARD LADDERS LEAN " 159 

" I5ESIDE THE NORTHERN LAKES " 161 



The forests are not all felled, 

Nor the flowers all swept from the sod; 
And the words are not all spelled 

That declare the glory of God. 



WAYSIDE POEMS 



ONE WOKD 



" Write me an epic," the warrior said — 
" Victory, valor, and glory wed." 

"Prithee, a ballad," exclaimed the knight— 
" Prowess, adventure, and faith unite." 

" An ode to freedom," the patriot cried — 
" Liberty won and wrong defied." 

" Give me a drama," the scholar asked — 
" The inner world in the outer masked." 

" Frame me a sonnet," the artist prayed — 
" Power and passion in harmony played." 

" Sing me a lyric," the maiden sighed — 
"A lark-note waking the morning 1 wide." 

" Nay, all too long," said the bus}? - age ; 
" Write me a line instead of a page." 

The swift years spoke, the poet heard : 
" Your poem write in a single word." 



Wayside Poems. 

He looked in the maiden's glowing eves, 
A moment glanced at the starlit skies — 

From the lights below to the lights above— 
And wrote the one-word poem — Love. 



LOVE'S DIAL 

In hope and joy we've journeyed 

O'er many a land and sea; 
Love's dial marks the sunshine — 

The years are twenty-three: 
They seem a dream foreshortened, 

An idyl sweetly told, 
For every hour was silver 

And every day was gold. 

By many a stream we've wandered, 

Through forests dim and vast, 
Where far Sierra's mountains 

Their westward shadows cast; 
Through bright Italian cities 

And dim cathedral aisle, 
And realms where art and beauty 

The centuries beguile; 

By Scottish rills that murmur 

The songs our mothers knew, 
Through deep defiles still guarded 

By heroes tried and true ; 
By burn and field and river, 

O'er many a land and sea, 
"We've wandered on together — 

The years are twenty-three. 

It seems somehow a story 
That hardly can be real, 

Too bright and evanescent 
For memory's gentlest seal ; 



Wayside Poems 

A word, a line, a poem 
That never can be told,— 

For every hour was silver, 
And every day was gold ; 

Or like a floating vision 

Where ripples softly break, 
And idle oars lie floating 

Upon a moonlit lake ; 
A paradise of glory 

Where love is never old, 
And every hour is silver 

And every day is gold. 

And so beside Love's dial 

We note the fleeting years, 
And gather in the harvest 

That grows in smiles and tears; 
Then voyage on together 

Upon a wider sea; 
The days are drifting leeward — 

The years are twenty-three. 



THE MILKY WAY 

A PERSIAN LEGEND 

They lived and dreamed in silent ages past- 
Two lovers parted through long bitter years — 

And died in hope. But fate, still cruel, cast 
Their future lot in far-off different spheres, 

To grieve in vain, and Heaven itself was naught — 
An empty joy — for what is life at best 

Till with the threads of being there is wrought 
A chord responsive to another breast? 

Their spirits yearned across the chasm drear; 
An answering wish shot swift from soul to soul, 

A bridge of light o'er that wide waste to rear, 
An arch of stars across the flaming scroll. 
They waited not, nor asked they God above, 
For time or space cannot dissever love. 

Long aeons pass, and now the narrowing zone 

Needs but one star to make the span complete; 
One crowning sphere from out the living throne 

To bind the arch. Straightway archangels fleet 
Sought God, and spake : " See'st Thou yon starry way 

Where spirits bold would bridge the realms of space? 
Have they Thy Will with wandering spheres to play, 

And rob Thy throne presumptuous pride to grace?" 
" Shall I destroy," God said, " the works of love, 

I who am Love?" In radiant glory bright 
Those spirits wept with joy ; around, above, 

For one sweet instant thrilled all worlds with light:— 
"The keystone take from God's eternal throne; 
The works of love abide, and they alone." 



REPENTANCE 

A curse was hurled into the air, — 

That God a brother's soul might blast. 
The hot tears fell. Then rose a prayer, — 
That God might guard and keep it fast. 
Swift sped the curse, but swifter far 

The white-winged prayer on mercy's breath; 
While angels o'er Heaven's crystal bar 

Beheld the race of life and death. 
The bat-like curse in dazzling- light 
Uncertain now its journey keeps, 
While up through heavenly radiance bright 
The victor prayer in triumph sweeps. 
The crystal bar wide open flies, 
The prayer is safe in Paradise ; 
It closes at the angel's nod. 
The curse ne'er reached the throne of God. 



OLE BULL'S CHRISTMAS 

MY LANDLORD'S PRAIRIE STORY 

Move along a trifle, stranger, just a little ; don't you see 

On the floor that hieroglyphic, something like a letter B ? — 

Right there, close to where you're standing, sort of sacred spot we 

keep ; 
And we always touch it gently when we scrub up once a week. 
Recent ? Yes, some time last August, but I put it in to stay ; 
And the yellow pine will hold it after we are laid away. 
No one sets his chair upon it or he's straightway told to shove ; 
For the boys, you see, won't stand it ; that's a plank the neighbors 

love. 

"Somewhat of a Poets' Corner," once a high-toned traveller said; 
They corrected him politely as they showed him up to bed. 
He explained about an Abbey — I don't quite recall the name — 
With a chapel full of dead folks that had found their way to fame. 
But, they said, this is no graveyard ; here's the spot where Ole stood 
When he told his Christmas story right before the blazing wood. 
Never heard him ? Never saw him ? Stranger, you don't mean to 

say 
That you never heard the master, Ole Bull, the fiddler, play? 

Talk of classic art in music ! What was that to Ole Bull, 

When his blood with life was tingling and his eyes were brimming 

full? 
I have thought his heart in rapture sent its pulses all the way 
Through the bit of seasoned timber that against his bosom lay ; 
Till the fiddle seemed a fixture, part and parcel of the man, 
And the trembling strings a net-work over which his feelings ran. 



io Wayside Poems 

He would shake your sides with laughter, make you weep as by a 

look, 
And between the bits of music he could talk just like a book. 

Fluent speakers ! We have had them, noted men from foreign 

parts ; 
But, for eloquence, I tell you, Ole held the ace of hearts. 
He was not the man to filter idle jests through wabblin' lips; 
Born somehow to talk all over from his toes to finger-tips: 
Just a sort of natural battery, filled the room with life and joy, 
Beaming face, with locks of silver, bright and chipper as a boy. 
He would sit here of an evening, reeling off the slickest thread ; 
And the hour-hand wasn't heeded or the horses in the shed. 
"Let 'em whinner," said the deacon, "they can stand it once a year; 
And our wives — they don't expect us, when they know that Oles 
here." 

We were all a bit Norwegian, and he seemed to feel at home; 
Said no hearth shone bright as this one from Christiania down to 

Rome. 
He would tell us his adventures in those cities old and gray ; 
How he struggled, toiled, and suffered when he first began to play ; 
Of his failures and successes, praise and honor won at last, 
From patrician, prince, and peasant, wheresoe'er his lot was cast; 
But of all his greatest triumphs he regarded this the best, 
How he won a gray-haired hermit on the prairies of the West. 

It was on a Christmas evening, wellnigh fifty years ago; 
None who heard him can forget it ; lost in sleet and blinding snow, 
Fifteen miles from any farm-house, twenty from the nearest town, 
Ole Bull had missed the guide-board, for the storm had hurled it 

down. 
Stumbling, floundering in the snow-drifts, onward pressed his noble 

gray, 
Led by instinct and devotion ; Ole let him have his way. 
Many a trail they'd tried together, but he deemed this trip the last; 
Horse and rider both must perish in that wild and howling blast. 
Hope had died and life was ebbing, when, from out the cruel night, 
Far across the fenceless prairie faintly shone a twinkling light. 



Ol'e Bull's Christmas 



ii 



Many a time I've heard him tell it, as he let his fancy play, 
Till you felt the storm about you, saw the distant flickering ray ; 
Found your nerves and hair a-tingling, all attuned to passion's key — 
There it glimmers like a light-house just above the blinding sea — 
Fainter now : O bitter darkness ! idle vision of the brain — 
Joy ! Behold the ruddy firelight streaming through the window-pane. 
Steady, one more drift, my bonnie ! bravely done, all danger past ! 
What ! No word or sign of welcome ! tried the door and found it 

fast. 
Near at hand a ruined shelter, remnant of a cattle-shed ; 
Safe within, the gray was grateful, pawing gently to be fed. 




" BEAMING FACK, WITH LOCKS OF SILVER " 



12 Wayside Poems 

Soon a lantern, then a shadow, and within the creaking door 
Stood a being such as mortal never saw on earth before. 
Fierce his bitter imprecation — " Get you out, whoe'er you be ! 
I have sealed an oath in heaven never human face to see ; 
Heart and soul to hate abandoned, love by cruel fortune wronged; 
I've renounced for years— forever — all that to my life belonged. 
Take your way ! Begone ! Ay, perish in yon wild demoniac yeast ; 
For the wrongs that I have suffered I will have revenge at least." 
" Fiend or madman !" Ole answered, seized his shoulder in a trice, 
Led him straight into the cabin, for his grip was like a vise; 
" I am here to stay till daylight, asking neither food nor grace ; 
Sit you there within the shadow ; and I charge you keep your 
place." 

Hour by hour went by in silence, till the hermit, crooning low, 
Took a fiddle from his cupboard, woke the airs of long ago. 
Ole, wondering, looked and listened. Though his touch showed little art, 
He could feel the deeper music sweetly welling from the heart, 
All perhaps to him remaining of a brighter, happier morn, 
Ere his heart became a desert, and his curse was yet unborn. 
Long he played the old-time music, as unconscious of his guest ; 
Then with cold and feigned politeness turned and spake in bitter 

jest; 
In a tone of well-bred irony, telling of a better day, 
" Will the stranger who is with us lay aside his cloak and play ?" 

Ole rose and took that fiddle ; said he never felt before 

All the conscious power within him as, upon that cabin floor, 

Saw in vision panoramic circling galleries of acclaim, 

With the flush of joy ecstatic and with beauty's light aflame ; 

Felt the glowing tide of transport swelling from a thousand hearts, 

And the thrill of deep emotion when the tear in rapture starts; 

Ah, but that was gilded pageant, this was more than stately dome— 

To a lonely heart in exile he is playing " Home, Sweet Home.*' 

Nearer still and ever nearer, all entranced the hermit drew, 
Gazed with open eyes of wonder through his lashes wet with dew; 
Thought his midnight guest an angel come unto him unawares, 
As the music softly stealing brought again his mother's prayers. 



Ole Bull's Christmas 13 

Long-pent tears, their barriers bursting, coursed his careworn furrows 

free, 
In that far-off, storm-swept prairie, where God's eye alone might see: 
Desolate his heart and harder than the rock by Judah's fold, 
Smote by Oles rod of magic, woke like Meribah of old. 
Miracle of love eternal! Ever still life's mystic bowl, 
Touched by human kindness, bubbles in the desert of the soul. 

So, ere morning dawned, like brothers he and Ole side by side 
Shared the narrow cot between them, made by faith and friendship 

wide. 
" Saved, ay, saved !" the hermit murmured, " I have found my life 

again ; 
Learned a truer, deeper meaning in the words, my ' fellow-men.' " 
Then they took their way together when the storm was overpast ; 
In the crowded city parted, journeying on to meet — at last. 

This was Ole's favorite story, which he told us standing here, 
With the fire-glow streaming o'er him — so the spot, you see, is dear ; 
And, at evening in the winter, when I hear the village bell, 
Ole's music floats about me, all the room seems in a spell ; 
And again I hear him saying, " That one hermit to enthrall 
Stands among my proudest triumphs, sweetest, grandest of them all." 



IMPERIAL TIME 

Imperial Time, that neither hastes nor waits, 

First-born of Him who wrought creation fair, 
In glory throned at Morning's golden gates, 

Ere Light was spoken to the wondering air; 
Great chronicler of silent ages vast, 

Forgetting naught though centuries glide away; 
The sifted star-dust on thy pages cast 

Obscures no record of thine earlier day : 
Viceroy supreme beyond the farthest bound 

Where human sobs in pallid echoes die, 
Within whose soul no pitying throb is found, 

Whose only tears are meteors of the sky; 
Monarch and viceroy, chronicler sublime, 
But mortal still, a shadow's shadow — Time ! 



DESTINY 

I wandered down a brooklet bubbling bright, 
Which slowly widened gliding towards the sea; 

A leaf aglow with Autumn's golden light 
From restful bough was nodding dreamily. 




"i WANDERED DOWN A BROOKLET BUBBLING BRIGHT' 



1 6 Wayside Poems 

Midway it hung, but, as ray lifted hand 

Would pluck its beauty from the listless bough, 
A laughing breeze, so light it scarcely fanned 

The unkempt silver of the poplar's brow, 
Bore it across. I followed in my quest, 

And down the bank upon the farther side 
I journeyed on into the purpling west — 

The brooklet, now a river deep and wide, 
No more to be recrossed, it might not be — 
A drifting leaf — and yet my soul was free. 



ENVIRONMENT 

If the seed had not dropped, 

Or the tree had not grown, 
If the frost had not nipped, 

Or the leaf had not blown ; 
Had it not drifted over 

The moment I passed, 
If the stream had been wider 

Its beauty that glassed ! 

Did the leaf know His will \— 

Too tangled the skein ; 
Did I wander unguided ? — 

The question is vain. 
Be it Fate or Free Will, 

"What matter to me ; 
Either side of the river 

Leads down to the sea. 

2 



THE FLOWER-KEY 

A fairy princess wandered when a child, 

From jewelled halls beneath the ocean's bound, 
Up to the world, where rocks in ruin piled 

Behind her footsteps closed with hapless sound ; 
In vain with feeble arm and tiny hand 

She sought return ; then sank in blinding tears, 
Till came a noble queen with stately band 

To give her shelter and to calm her fears : 
But still she sighed and never might forget 

The sylphid streams where shadows never stray ; 
While at her wish ten thousand heroes met 

And wrought with will to find her homeward way- 
A fruitless task, a kingdom's force was spent, 
The rock by mortal strength could not be rent. 

She came and went, but oft in bitter grief 

Bemoaned her fate beside the cruel door — 
" The Power that guards to every prayer is deaf, 

The princely palace closed forevermore ! 
The fair enchanted grottos where I strayed 

In golden hours, would they again were mine! 
My sisters dear with whom I fondly played 

When days were bright, what memories enshrine ! 
Long weary years my patient footsteps press 

The ruthless threshold that I know full well ; 
No answer comes my sorrowing soul to bless, 

No genii wait to break the magic spell, 

Yon heartless crag returns my anxious cry— 
' Alas ! alas !' the listening glens reply." 



The Flower-key 19 

" What flower is that thou bearest in thine hand ?" 

A hermit said, who heard the sad refrain ; 
" I've wandered wide in many a distant land, 

And know full well that human works are vain." 
The Princess answered : " Symbol dear to me — 

A primrose pale." " Then be not thus bereft ; 
In other realms 'tis known as Mary's key: 

Touch thou with it." The rock in silence cleft. 
The door swung wide on massive hinges wrought, 

The key of flowers had touched the hidden ward : — 
A gleam of light with glory strangely fraught, 

A strain of joy upborne in sweet accord. 
The hermit picked the fallen primrose there; 
The door had closed. Alone he bows in prayer. 



NIAGAKA 

Pkoud swaying pendant of a crystal chain, 

On fair Columbia's rich and bounteous breast, 
With beaded lakes that necklace-like retain 

Heaven's stainless blue with golden sunlight blest I 
What other land can boast a gem so bright ! 

With colors born of sun and driven spray — 
A brooch of glory, amulet of might, 

Where all the irised beauties softly stray. 
Ay, more — God's living voice, Niagara, thou! 

Proclaiming wide the anthem of the free ; 
The starry sky the crown upon thy brow, 

Thy ceaseless chant a song of Liberty. 

But this thy birthright, this thy sweetest dower, 
Yon arching rainbow — Love still spanning Power. 








J&* 




■ PROUD SWAYING PENDANT " 



ALPINE SPRING 

TO MY MOTHER, MARY ANN MacALPINE BRUCE 
Dedicated at Be Funiak Springs, Florida. 

I know the mountain brooklets in the pass of wild Glencoe, 
Where waved the MacAlpine standard a thousand years ago. 
I have heard the pibroch sounding by stream and wooded fell, 
And lingered in the gloaming beside St. Ronan's Well. 

1 know the homestead fountain, where the waters bubble bright, 

Beneath the oak and maple aglow with golden light ; 

I listen to the music of the gurgling sylvan rill, 

And the gentle, mellow cadence of the wondering whippoorwill. 

I wander down the footpath, in memory here to-day, 
With my mother to that springside in the hills so far away ; 
I hear the old-time stories, kneel again beside her knee, 
And the woodland's murmuring music through the twilight speaks 
to me, 

With a love that knows no distance, though deep shadows intervene, 
Leading back the weary wanderer through the meadows fair and 

green, 
With a love that lifts her rainbow, though the skies be dark above — 
Sunshine from a sphere immortal, born of heaven — : a mother's love. 

In the glory of this sunshine we have come in gladness now, 
In the light that veils her presence, reverent with uncovered brow ; 
Here beside the gentle music of fair waters flowing free — 
Alpine Spring, my sainted mother, consecrates its heart to thee. 



24 



Wayside Poems 



Come, then, children, free and happy, for her laugh was light as 

yours; 
Come, fair youth, with golden promise that abideth and endures; 
Come, fond age, that now is waiting for the bliss that she hath won; 
Welcome to the Alpine fountain while its waters greet the sun. 




"i WANDER DOWN THE FOOTPATIT, IN MEMORY HERE TO-DAY " 



INCH-CAILLIACH, LOCH LOMOND 

(The island burial-place of Clan- Alpine, resembling, from Rossdhu, a reclining body witJi 

folded arms) 

No more Clan-Alpine's pibroch wakes 

Loch Lomond's hills and waters blue; 
"Hail to the Chief" no longer breaks 

The quiet sleep of Roderick Dhu : 
Enwrapped in peace the islands gleam 

Like emerald gems in sapphire set, 
And, far away, as in a dream, 

Float purple fields where heroes met. 

Inch-Cailliach — island of the blest ! 

Columba's daughter, passing fair, 
With folded arms upon her breast, 

Rests soft in sunset radiance there ; 
A vision sweet of fond Elaine, 

And floating barge of Camelot, 
Upon her brow no trace of pain, 

And on her heart " Forget me not." 

Forget thee, saintly guardian % Nay, 

From distant lands across the sea 
To this lone isle I fondly stray 

With song and garland fresh for thee ; 
I trace the old inscriptions dear, 

Fast fading now from mortal ken, 
And through the silvered lichens peer 

To read MacAlpine's name again. 



26 Wayside Poems 

My mother's name, a sacred link 

That binds me to the storied past; 
A rainbow bridge from brink to brink, 

Which spans with light the centuries vast. 
Two hundred years! Clan- Alpine's pine 

Has struck its roots in other lands ; 
My pulses thrill to trace the sign 

And touch the cross with reverent hands. 

All ruin here ! — the shrine is dust, 

The chapel wall a shapeless mound ; 
But nature guards with loving trust, 

And ivy twines her tendrils round 
The simple slab, sublimer far 

Than gilded dome for Scotia's line; 
The open sky and northern star 
Befit the chieftains of the pine. 

The light streams out from fair Rossdhu 

Across the golden-tinted wave ; 
That crumbling keep, that ancient yew, 

Still mark a worthy foeman's grave; 
But warm the hearts that now await 

Our coming at the open door, 
With love and friendship at the gate, 

And beacon-lights along the shore. 

Dear Scotia ! ever yet more dear 

To loyal sons in every land ; 
Strong in a race that knew not fear, 

And for man's freedom dared to stand ; 
Ay, dearer for thy songs that float 

Like thistle-down o'er land and sea, 
And strike the universal note 

Of love and faith and liberty. 




' THE AULD BRIG HAILS WI HEART V CHEER 



THE AULD BKIG'S WELCOME 

(Delivered at the unveiling of the Burns Statue, Ayr, July 8, 1891) 

The Auld Brig hails wi' hearty cheer — 
Uncover, lads, for Burns is here ! 
The bard who links us all to fame, 
And blends his own with Scotia's name. 

Seven hundred years the winding Ayr 
Has glassed my floating image there ; 
I've seen long centuries glide away, 
But Kobin brought our blithest clay. 



I heard the Thirteenth's warlike peal 
Wake serried ranks of glinting steel : 
All wrinkled now, yet in my prime, 
I wait with joy the Twentieth's chime. 



28 Wayside Poems 



I cherish weel in memory bright 
The glorious deeds of Wallace wight, 
And deem the very stones are blessed 
Which bind the arch his feet have pressed. 

I mind the time King Robert's band 
With sweeping oar left Arran's strand ; 
The flame that lit yon Carrick hill 
All round the world is shining still. 

Old Coila's had her share of fame, 
Her bead-roll treasures many a name; 
She's had her heroes great and sma', 
But Robin stands aboon them a'. 

The auld clay-biggin of his birth 
Becomes the shrine of all the earth ; 
The room where rose the Cotter's prayer 
The proudest heritage of Ayr. 

]STo starlit sky, no summer noon, 
But kens the banks o' bonnie Doon ; 
No human heart but fondly turns 
Responsive to the Land of Burns. 

Ah, Burns! who dares to call thee poor! 
Each skylark nest on yonder moor, 
Each daisy-bloom on flowery mead, 
The lambs that on the meadows feed, 

Each field and brae by burn or stream, 
Where wandering lovers come to dream, 
Are all thine own. As vassals all 
We gather here from princely hall, 

From lowly cot, from hills afar, 
From southern clime, from western star, 
To bring our love ; all hearts are thine 
By title time can never tyne. 



The A H Id Brigs Welcome 



The crowning meed of praise belongs 
To him who makes a people's songs; 
Who strikes one note— the common good, 
One chord — a wider brotherhood ; 



29 




" SINCE TAM 0' SHANTER RODE THIS WAY " 



Who drops a word of cheer to bless 
His fellow-mortal in distress, 
And lightens on life's dustv road 
Some traveller, weary of his load ; 



3<3 Wayside Poems 

Who finds the Mousie's trembling heart 
Of God's great universe a part ; 
And in the Daisy's crimson tips 
Discerns a soul with human lips. 

"We little dreamed when "Mailie" died 
Those tender words would speed so wide; 
Men smiled and wept, and went their way- 
The prince was clad in hodden gray. 

Though but a brig, it garred me greet 
To hear him pour his "Vision" sweet. 
And in one crowning climax seal 
His pity even for the Deil. 

To see the couthie Twa Dogs there, 
Their joys and griefs wi' ither share — 
A cantie tale, it made me smile 
That sic a lad was born in Kyle ; 

"Who caught the witches in a dance, 
And bound them all in lasting trance ; 
The very land is bright and gay 
Since Tarn o* Shanter rode this way. 

The Auld Brig kens the story well 
These rippling wavelets love to tell : 
" Ayr. gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore "- 
A fonder kiss his waters bore. 

That raptured hour, that sacred vow, 
Are love's eternal treasures now ; 
Montgomery's towers may fall away, 
But Highland Mary lives for aye. 

And sweeter still the swelling song 
Of loyal love repairing wrong ; 
Like mavis notes that gently fa' — 
" Of a' the airts the wind can blaw." 



The An Id Brigs Welcome 



31 



Brave bonnie Jean ! AVe love to tell 
The story from thy lips that fell ; 
The lengthened life which Heaven gave 
Casts radiant twilight on his grave. 




A noble woman, strong to 

shield ; 
Her tender heart his trusty 

bield ; 
The critic from her doorway 

turns 
With faith renewed and love 

for Burns. 






■I 



9 '"-5*/- 



SHE HEARD HIM BY THE SOUNDING SHORE " 



Wayside Poems 

She knew as no one else could know 
The heavy burden of his woe ; 
The carking care, the wasting pain — 
Each welded link of misery's chain. 

She saw his early sky o'ercast, 

And gloomy shadows gathering fast, 

His soul by bitter sorrow torn, 

And knew that "man was made to mourn." 

She heard him by the sounding shore 
Which speaks his name for evermore, 
And felt the anguish of his prayer : 
" Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr." 

O Robert Burns ! by tempest tossed, 
Storm-swept, by cruel whirlwinds crossed ; 
Thy prayers, like David's psalms of old, 
Make all our plaints and wailings cold. 

In weakness sown, yet raised in might, 
He wept that we might know the right ; 
His sweetest pleasures pain-imbued ; 
His songs a drama's interlude. 

And who dare thrust his idle word 
Where God's own equities are heard ? 
" Who made the heart, 'tis He alone " — 
Let him that's guiltless cast the stone. 

We know but this : his living song 
Protects the weak and tramples wrong; 
Refracting radiance of delight, 
His prismed genius, clear and bright, 

Illumes all Scotland far and wide, 
And Caledonia throbs with pride 
To hear her grand old Doric swell 
From Highland eras: to Lowland dell : 



The Auld Brigs Welcome 

To find, where'er her children stray, 
Her "Auld Lang Syne," her "Scots wha hae," 
And words of hope which proudly span 
The centuries vast — " A man's a man." 

Then welcome, Burns, from shore to shore ! 
All hail, our Kobin, evermore ! 
Though late, we greet the Ploughman's name 
Full in the morning of his fame. 



33 








u FROM HIGHLAND CRAG TO LOWLAND DELL " 



DE FITNIAK LAKE 

IN THE ADIRONDACK^ OF WESTERN FLORIDA 

(A magic spring one mile in circumference, round as the moon and clear as the sky) 

A lotus-land where Time forgets its date, 

A dreaming-place beneath the swaying trees; 
A lake so pure it seems the wedded mate 

Of yon fair sky, before the rustling breeze 
To rippling laughter wakes its gentle breast, 

Showing it, too, is human: Oh, what joy 
To roam in sunlight here, kind Nature's guest, 

Wooing her smile ! or, bliss without alloy, 
To watch the moonlight kiss the lapsing wave 

With one we love, and speak with answering eyes 
The language Paradise ne'er lost, but gave 

Lest man should be an outcast from the skies. 
No spot so sweet ; no water half so blue ; 
God's crowning circle wrought with compass true. 



"UNO DE MILLE" 

ONE OF " THE THOUSAND " OF GARIBALDI * 
LAKE COMO 

Another gone of " The Thousand " brave ; 
Across Lake Como borne to his grave. 
" Uno de Mille " they softly say 
Waiting there by the quiet bay : 
A crowded piazza, a weeping sky ; 
Hush ! The steamer is drawing nigh. 

"Uno de Mille!" Who is he? 

A soldier, they whisper, of liberty; 




"the dawning day touches the mountains cold and gray" 
* See Preface. 



36 Wayside Poems 

One of the thousand from college hall 
Who rallied at Garibaldi's call : 
His voyage finished, the anchor cast, 
Home at Como to sleep at last. 

Home, by her rippling waters blue, 
Mirroring skies of tender hue ; 
Home, where a kinsman's heart-felt tear 
Hallows a brother-soldier's bier ; 
Home, where a noble comrade now 
Plaits a chaplet to grace his brow. 

Strew with roses the hero's way, 
Over the sleeping warrior pray ; 
Home, from journeying far and wide, 
"Welcome him here with stately pride ; 
The night, my brother, comes to me ; 
The morn, Italia, to thee! 

Strew with roses the hero's way, 
Over the sleeping warrior pray ; 
Wake, Italia ! Speak for me, 
Reunited from sea to sea ; 
Guard with honor the sacred bier, 
" Uno de Mille " is lying here. 

Thus mused his comrade through the night* 
Weaving a garland fresh and bright; 
Sorrowing for a brother dead, 
Summoning hours forever fled ; 
The light burns dim, the dawning dav 
Touches the mountains cold and gray. 

The pen has fallen from his grasp, 
His head is bowed, his hands unclasp ; 
The sunlight pierces the casement there, 
He greets the morning with stony stare ; 
The day, Italia, breaks for thee ! 
The night, my brother, comes to me. 




" HOME, BY HER RIPPLING WATERS BLUE " 



" Uno de Milk" 39 

Kot as he deemed. He little thought 
The morrow's work would be unwroug-ht. 
Little he dreamed the boat that bore 
His comrade dead to Como's shore, 
Dark-draped its homeward course should keep 
To bear him too where his kinsmen sleep. 

Hushed again the crowded square, 
Sky and lake the stillness share ; 
Over the mountains a fading glow — ■ 
" Duo de Mille " they murmur low , 
One, with tapers in yonder dome, 
One, 'neath the starlight, going home. 

And so they parted, not in tears, 
Wedded in death through coming years; 
Sleeping remote by the sunny shore, 
Reunited forevermore ! 
Lake Como sings one song to me : 
"The morn, Italia, to thee!" 



COLUMBIA'S OAKLAND 

(At the Unveiling of the Lincoln Monument, Edinburgh, in Memory of Scottish- American 

Soldiers, August 21st, 1893) 

Another clasp of loving hands, 
Another link across the sea, 
A living word from distant lands 
To grace the soldiers of the free; 
Columbia, at her Mother's knee, 
Unfolds the scroll of Liberty. 

A parchment born of bitter years, 

Red-lined with blood of martyrs leal, 
Dark-stained and blurred by captives' tears, 
By dungeon-mould and rusted steel — 
A charter sealed beneath the star 
That led the nations from afar; 

To find a green-girt island-home, 

With moat outlasting gates of steel, 
"Whose bulwark was the ocean foam, 
Whose drawbridge was the floating keel, 
Whereon to bear all round the world 
The flag of Destiny unfurled. 

Your Magna Charta rode secure 

Within the Mayflower's narrow hold, 
That invoice made the shipment sure — 
A Britain poured in larger mould ; 
Your Gaelic-Saxon-Norman blood — 
The yeast of Time's great brotherhood. 



Columbia s Garland 

What complex forces strangelv wrought, 

What lasting victories nobly won, 
Since Sidney died and Hampden fought, 
Or Milton dreamed of Washington ! 
Virginia voiced your stately creed— 
A scion true of Runnymede. 



4' 




"his honest face had power to charm" 



With tendrils reaching west to rear 

The highest type of manhood's power, 
Born of the soil, without a peer, 

Our Lincoln stands the noblest flower 
Of freedom in its widening course 
From Chatham, Fox, and Wilberforce 



To whom an anxious nation turned 

When gathering clouds the sky o'ercast, 



42 Wayside Poems 

A pilot brave with soul that yearned 
To guide the ship before the blast ; 
To hold the faith our fathers knew, 
To keep the stars within the blue. 

A genius stamped with sterling worth, 

Despising juggling and pretence, 
His story halos humble birth, 
A parable of modest sense ; 

Endowed to see and do the right — 
The majesty of moral might. 

Inspired to set in simple speech 

The words that sway a people's heart, 
Prophetic sentences that reach 

Beyond the realm and scope of art ; 
The humor of a nation's youth, 
The wit of plain and homely truth. 

'Twas this upheld the faltering arm. 

When hearts were faint and bowed in prayer; 
His honest face had power to charm 
And ease the burden of our care ; 
"With will serene that masters fate, 
He tauo-ht the land to trust and wait. 



\-v 



With bended knee and listening ear 

He watched the hour to speak and save ; 
Hark ! Bells peal out an anthem clear — 
He strikes the shackle from the slave : 
That deed completes the work begun 
By Jefferson and Hamilton. 

Embodied here to stand for aye 
In memory of soldiers brave, 
Who stood in many a bloody fray 
In serried ranks our land to save ; 
To Scotia's sons we proudly turn — 
Descendants true of Bannockburn. 




HE STRIKES THE SHACKLES PROM THE SLAVE" 



Columbia s Garland 45 

"We cannot consecrate this ground,*' 
No deed of ours the debt can pay ; 
The ray across each martyr's mound 
Gets stronger purchase day by day — 
Each soldier's grave a fulcrum sod — 
The lever in the hand of God ; 

To lift the world to larger life, 

To loftier dreams and nobler deeds, 
To broaden faith and narrow strife, 
To plant the rose and crush the weeds, 
Till jealousies forget their date — 
The cerements of a worn-out hate. 

Through prismed tears let sunlight play, 

Secure in joy, redeemed in grief; 
One song unites the Blue and Gray, 
One glory binds the garnered sheaf — 
War's cruel reaping kindly sealed 
By brothers of the martyred field. 

And so Columbia comes with cheer, 

With outstretched hand from o'er the sea, 
To place a garland on the bier 

Of those who died to keep us free; 
And here, beside her Mother's knee, 
Unfolds the scroll of Liberty. 



MERRIE ENGLAND 

Sweet smiling lea with hedge-rows green, 

And gray-walled church with ivied tower, 
The thatch-roofed cot, mid poplar sheen, 

The quiet croft, the lordly tower, 
The low-arched bridge by centuries seamed, 

The hill-crowned castle's stately wall, 
Deep-wooded parks where lovers dreamed, 

Cathedral spire and storied hall ; 
The winding stream with placid flow 

By willows marked athwart the mead, 
The sloping fields where daisies blow 

And skylarks tune their lofty creed — 
All this and more old England keeps — 
A land of love where memory sleeps. 




"deep-wooded parks where loters dreamed" 



THE OLD ORGAN (1754) 

LODGE CANONGATE KILWINNING, EDINBURGH 

( Tune — ' ' Scotland Yet ") 

Gae sit beside the organ there. 

And touch the guid auld keys; 
We want a dear familiar air. 

And ''Scotland Yet" will please: 
A noble song our hearts to greet 

From out the hallowed years, 
An offering meet with music sweet 

That fills the eyes with tears ; 
For love is strong though time is fleet, 

And love alone endears. 

Ay, fond and full the swelling notes, 

The pipes with rapture glow, 
As vague and shadowy memory floats 

From out the long ago : 
The golden reeds can ne'er forget 

The nights so fair and free, 
When brothers met and " Scotland Yet " 

Rang out with hearty glee ; 
For love alone has no regret, 

And love is throned in thee. 

The pictured walls bend low to hear 

The tender anthem rise ; 
A gentle moisture, like a tear, 

Bedews that worthy's eyes ; 



50 Wayside Poems 



Old "Scotland Yet"— the only air 

To wake the silent fold— 
Our chief St. Clair and Drummond there 

Seem nearer than of old ; 
For love is still the only pra}^er 

That warms the lips when cold. 

Ah, brothers, who have gone before 

Across the silent sea, 
Remembered still for evermore, 

We raise our song to thee; 
And, in some lull of harmony, 

When pearly gates swing wide, 
" My Ain Countrie," still dear to thee, 

And " Scotland Yet," beside, 
Will lead in sacred psalmody 

Where love shall aye abide. 

Then once again a ringing cheer 

And pledge from every heart 
To Canongate Kilwinning dear, 

Ere friends and brothers part; 
A health to all on shore or sea 

Who love the sacred fount, 
Where'er they be, frae Ettrick free 

To Shasta's silver mount — 
Old " Scotland Yet," with honors three, 

Up all ! count, wardens, count ! 

Hark to the echo of the strain ; 

The cable-tow is strong ; 
Alaska answers the refrain 

Which India's skies prolong : 
To brothers near and brothers far 

The hailing-sign is cast, 
And sceptre-bar or jewel-spar 

Cannot that word outlast; 
From Southern Cross to Northern Star 

The bond of love is fast. 



The Old Organ 



So sit beside the organ there 

And touch the guid auld keys, 
A golden hour we'll blithely share, 

And " Scotland Yet " will please. 
Sing of her lakes and quiet dells 

Close-fondled by the sea ; 
Each hill that swells with glory tells 

The story of the free ; 
While broom and whin and heather-bells 

Eespond with three times three. 



51 





" SING OF HER LAKES AND QUIET DELLS ' 



IN CLOVER AND HEATHER 

There are greetings the wide world over, 
And blossoms wherever we roam, 

But none like the heather and clover 
To welcome the wanderer home. 

Warm-hearted with kindred devotion, 

Twin sisters in sympathy true, 
They whisper across the wide ocean, 

Love-laden with memory's dew. 

In purple tints woven together 

The Hudson shakes hands with the Tweed, 
Commin2:lin£ with Abbotsford's heather 

The clover of Sunnyside's mead. 

A token of friendship immortal 
With Washington Irving returns — 

Scott's ivy entwined o'er his portal 
By the " Blue-eyed Lassie " of Burns. 

Their names by heather-bells wedded 
With fondness Columbia retains ; 

In freedom's foundation imbedded 
The lay of the minstrel remains. 

Ay, this their commission and glory, 

In redolent bloom to prolong 
Love, liberty, legend, and story, 

That blossom in ballad and song. 



In Clover and Heather 



53 



So here's to the clover and heather 
Of river-side, mountain, and glen, 

As I stand wi' doffed bonnet and feather 
At the yetts of my forebears again ! 




"so here's to the clover and heather' - 



TWO ARGOSIES 

(Antonio's and Shakespeare's') 

" The ducats take ! I'll sign the bond to-day : 

No storm can wreck Antonio's white-winged fleet ; 
My stately ships secure ride every bay 
From Tripolis to Indies' golden seat. 
The ducats take, Bassanio, go thy way ; 

Thy Portia win, and bid me to the feast ; 
Ten thousand men Antonio's nod obey, 

And of ten thousand Shylock is the least. 
I'll sign the bond, thy words cannot avail, 

No chance can reach the wealth I share with thee 
I stand secure, let cruel fortune rail 
Till Venice sleeps beneath bright Adria's sea." 
Fate heard the boast — a thousand vessels lay 
'Mid rocks and sands to waves an idle prey. 

The dramas take! That bond at least is sure; 

Twelve thousand words more dear than ducats are 
Outride the storms of ages and endure, 

Safe anchored here within the shifting bar 
Of changing speech. Eternal now his tongue, 

By right divine, sways all the world with grace : 
Great bond of all — sweet Shakespeare sung; 

His commerce brings the nations face to face. 
His dramas take! Their wealth shall still survive; 

His argosies care not for time or fate; 
All else may pass, and crowding centuries strive, 

That bond alone is not determinate. 

In him proud Albion lives entire and hale, 
Her titled language crowned in high entail. 



EPILOGUE 

To the Shakespeare Society, Edinburgh, and its honored President, Samuel Neil 

And now to thee, dear Shakespeare friends, to-night 

Two argosies are here and both secure ; 
One rich with love and one with memory bright — 

Life's only wealth, a cargo safe and sure. 
With lifted sail fond memory floats away, 

But love remains, the argosy I brought; 
A welcome waits in yonder sunlit bay 

These freighted dreams with kindness all inwrought. 
One invoice here, and one beyond the sea 

That needs no notary's scrawl or consul's seal ; 
In every land one word is sesame — 

A Shakespeare passport signed by Samuel Neil. 
"Bon Voyage" give, and grant your leader's name, 
No Saxon port too distant for his fame. 



AT CONWAY CASTLE 

Thy massive walls and battlements are bare, 

A newer Britain claims the century's gaze ; 
And yet these battered stones her glory share — 

The strength and refuge of heroic days : 
Great object-lesson of long bitter years 

When feudal chiefs wrought upward toward the light, 
A bitter nursery wet with captives' tears, 

But nursery still for God and human right. 
In yonder vale behold the school-house lifts 

Its gentler turrets to the coming day, 
To crown the land with manhood's noblest gifts, 

The nation's strength and freedom's only stay : 
"Knowledge is Power"; make every window wide — 
God's light for all! For this our fathers died. 




THY MASSIVE WALLS AND BATTLEMENTS ARE BARF." 



ON GUAED 

THE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH NEW YORK REGIMENT AT GETTYSBURG 

"We cannot consecrate this field. 

Or hallow ground where heroes stood ; 

Thus spoke the man whose words have sealed 
Our lips in Freedom's Holy Rood. 

We cannot dedicate. Too well 

Our Lincoln knew the Temple's cost, 

He heard the nation's anthem swell : 
Your deeds survive, our words are lost. 

The brave men living and the dead, 

Who wrought the epic of the free, 
Have consecrated here, he said, 

The land, the world, to liberty. 

And now amid the whirling years 

That punctuate the swift decades, 
You come with blended joy and tears, 

In peace beneath the gathering shades, 

To contemplate from hill to hill 

The line you held those bitter days, 

Again to feel your pulses thrill, 

Once more to take your meed of praise ; 

With noble monument to mark 

The spot where Dutchess, tried and true, 

Stood by the faith when skies were dark, 
And stars were blotted from the blue; 



60 Wayside Poems 

A picket outpost here for aye 
With watchword of the Hudson born, 

To note the moonlight shadows play, 
To greet with joy the early morn ; 

A silent sentinel to keep 
Its post along the quiet line ; 

A Bannockburn, where brothers sleep — 
A Waterloo, where roses twine. 

Ay, Gettysburg, thy name at last 
Proclaims the triumph of the race ; 

'Tis here the future greets the past. 
And faith asserts her crowning grace. 

No other battle-field like thine, 

Where love joins hands across the way, 

One flag, one land, a sacred shrine 
Alike unto the Blue and Gray. 

Then rear the graven stone with pride 
Along the line where freedom's van 

Shall speak to generations wide 
The final victory of man : 

That love and law will reign supreme 
Where'er the starry banner waves, 

When stones that now in sunlight gleam 
Shall lie in dust above their graves. 




"while lapsing wave and crag keep faithful tryst" 



TANTALLON CASTLE 



No more Tantallon rings with battle-cry 

Or shout of triumph in the martial list ; 
No bugle-call or seneschal's reply 

Pierces the darkness or the driving mist: 
I sit alone and hear the night winds sigh, 

Till now yon battlement by moonlight kissed 
Eesponds with echoes that will never die, 

While lapsing wave and crag keep faithful tryst 
Again proud Marmion waits the purple morn 

To meet his fate on Flodden's bitter field ; 



62 Wayside Poems 

To fairer fortune brave De Wilton born 

Watches with Clare beside the Douglas shield : 
What wondrous power! Behold the Wizard's art- 
His soul the lens, his realm the human heart. 



AT LINLITHGOW 

RIDING THE MARCHES 

Hark to the summons ! Mount and ride ! 

Linlithgow speaks, her sons are here ; 
From quiet loch to flowing tide 

Her bugle-note swells loud and clear: 
Ride, brothers, ride the marches wide, 
With stately pomp and civic pride. 

King David's royal borough fair 

Proclaims long centuries of fame ; 
Eight hundred years her annals bear 
The record of a noble name; 

Ride fair and free ; o'er loch and lea 
Linlithgow's banner bears the gree. 

St. Michael's Church, with visioned aisle 

Where spirits pled for Scotia's weal, 
Still guards in peace a stately pile, 
Where erst stood Edward's lofty peel : 

Queen Margaret's bower and roofless tower 
Remain Linlithgow's richest dower. 

And Scotland's Mary, cradled here, 

Whose beauty still the world o'ersways, 
Makes lake and wood and stream more dear — 
Her smile upon the landscape plays : 
A sunny dream, a morning beam, 
Before the lightning's lurid gleam. 



64 Wayside Poems 

A wider boundary now belongs 

Than when your palace walls were reared ; 
You speak in David Lindsay's songs, 
You live by Walter Scott endeared; 

Your marches reach where mothers teach 
The Doric or the English speech. 

Then rally round the old Cross Well, 

Ride east and west, ride south and north; 
Each year your ancient landmarks tell, 
From 'Lithgow to the banks of Forth : 
Your history keep, though monarchs sleep 
And ivy round yon turrets creep. 

So here's to old St. Michael's Well, 

As years their golden links unwind, 
And lisping children come to spell — 
"St. ifticjjael js to Strangers fcinUr." 
Up all, and ride with stately pride — 
That legend makes your marches wide. 



A EOYAL KOUTE 

FROM GETTYSBURG TO ATLANTA — FROM ATLANTA TO THE SEA 

{At the Poughkeepsie Reunion of the One Hundred and Fiftieth New York Regiment) 

Gay-bannered streets a greeting speak, 
Antl standards bright with storied name ; 

While moistened eye and burning cheek 
Unite proud welcome to proclaim. 

But waving plumes are symbols cold 

To voice what Dutchess here would say— 

And speech is silver, silence gold, 

"When memories o'er our heartstrings play. 

The same rich glor}^ floods the land, 

October flings her colors out, 
As when your noble, loyal band 

Went forth upon its royal route ; 

To bear yon flag, which loved ones gave, 
Through forest, plain, and mountains vast ; 

Our father's heritage to save, 

To keep fair freedom's title fast — 

At Gettysburg, where fate and fame 

Three days the wreath of victory tossed 

From hill to hill through battery-flame, 
From line to line where courage crossed — 



66 Wayside Poems 

In Tennessee, where Lookout Height 
With thunder-tone revealed the law, 

A cloud-wreathed Sinai, clad with might — 
Resaca, Dallas, Kenesaw — 

And nameless fields where valor led. 
As Hooker blazed his southward way, 

Till Allatoona heard the tread 

Of Sherman's troops that came to stay. 

I've walked those rugged mountain ways 
Where echoes sleep 'mid tranquil jo^ys ; 

Have waked the hills with notes of praise, 
And touched my hat to " Ketcham's Boys." 

Have marked the fields whereon they stood, 
With pride for Dutchess, tried and true, 

And deemed each spot a holy rood, 
Made sacred by the Boys in Blue. 

O grand old Twentieth Army Corps! 

Our hearts go out to thee and thine — 
Seven thousand reached Atlanta's door 

Of seventeen thousand men in line. 

Dark, cruel days ! Ten thousand lost ! 

Engulfed in war's encrimsoned tide ; 
A fearful price ! but worth the cost — 

The land is free for which they died. 

Then wiio would grudge to men like these 
The pensioned pittance of a crust ? 

Strike clown yon flag that flaunts the breeze, 
And all your wealth is glittering dust. 

A land with honor gone is naught, 
The people want no huckstering cry ; 

Too rich the realm for which they fought 
To let her brave defenders die. 



A Royal Route 67 

The wires are cut, The army swings 

Through seas of pine from moorings free; 

With Slocum now the Twentieth sings 
The March through Georgia to the Sea. 

And so the deep, proud chorus swells 

From north to south through all the land— 

A symphony of golden bells 

Swung by the Great Directors hand; 

Till every state from east to west 

Takes up Columbia's glorious chant- 
Faith, freedom, hope, and truth abreast — 

With errand crescendo under Grant. 



PARTS 

Paris the fair, the gay, the beautiful, 

Paris the winsome, soft with lithesome grace ; 
All adjectives are thine that lovers cull 

From glowing speech fond symmetry to trace. 
Bewitching, buoyant, rapturous, and blest, 

Enchanting, charming, exquisite, and dear; 
Proud of thy conquest, all the world thy guest ! 

Life's fashion-plate unrolled in fulness here : 
Paris the fair, at noontide, morn, and night, 

But sweeter still when gentle twilight falls, 
Or moonlight plays o'er columns pure and white 

On stately boulevard where bliss enthralls : 
There is but one, no other like to thee — 
Paris the fair, the beautiful, the free ! 







"ON STATELY BODLEVARD WHERE BLISS ENTHRALLS" 



FOURTH OF JULY AT BANNOCKBUM 

So may God defend the cause of truth and liberty as He did that day. — Robert Burns 

Ay, everywhere all round the world 
May God defend, as on this field, 
The flag of liberty unfurled, 

The Truth by blood of martyrs sealed ; 

Burns' prayer is ours : God bless the cause 
When freemen stand for freedom's laws. 

God bless the cause as on that day ! 

Swell wide the song, each note is dear; 
Five centuries have passed away, 
The dawning of the sixth is near; 
From every land your sons return 
To press the field of Bannockburn. 

To greet the storied standard here 
In sacred light of early morn — 
God bless the land ; each rood is clear 
Where Scottish liberty was born — 
A battle for the world beside, 
A victory for the nations wide. 

A link to bind the old and new, 

To make more close the kindred tie, 
To span with light the ocean blue, 
To float in song 'neath sunnier sky — 

The note that swells in "Scots wha hae" 
All round the world has come to stay. 



72 Wayside Poems 

At Marathon and Runnymede, 

By Stirling Bridge, at Naseby Field, 
Fair freedom conned a lofty creed 
And wrote Tm/pune on her shield ; 

Then westward brushed the morning dew 
And set the stars within the blue. 

No dwellers in Utopia they — 

Brave Pilgrims housed in narrow hold ; 
Fate took the helm, a wintry bay 

Stern welcome gave that starving fold ; 
What seeds of time the Mayflower bore 
From Albion to Columbia's shore! 

To gentler vales, to brighter streams, 
To prairies carpeted with flowers; 
To mountains ribbed with golden seams, 
To quiet haunts and woodland bowers — 
The poet's "Island of the Blest," 
The fair Republic of the West. 

So here beside the flowing rill 

We come with joy to trace the source, 
To note the fount, to feel the thrill 
Of manhood in its widening course, 
And standing round the old Borestone, 
Pledge Wallace, Bruce, and Washington. 

Dear Scotia! Homestead of the past, 

Enshrined through all the fleeting years; 
Your ivy tendrils bind us fast; 
A common heritage endears ; 

May God defend ! Burns' prayer is ours, 
Engird the world with Freedom's flowers. 



ANNIVERSARY OF ROBERT BURNS 

(At Lodge Canongate Kilwinning, January 25, 1890) 

Again Kilwinning's hearth grows wide, 
The tessellated floor is bright ; 

A mother's heart with loving pride 
Salutes her honored Sons of Light. 

They gather from the banks of Ayr, 
Frae Ettrick, Yarrow, and the Tay, 

A golden hour of love to share, 
To crown with joy the natal day 

Of bard and poet lowly born 
To teach the brotherhood of man, 

With skylark lilt of early morn, 

And notes that thrill the patriot's van ; 

With swelling song and living truth, 

From hearts of fire and tongues of flame, 

Fast binding in eternal youth 
Proud Scotia's Pleiades of Fame. 

The} T come — a galaxy of cheer 

In answer to the festal call : 
Loved Willie Hay to memory dear, 

And Lockhart of the Minstrel Hall ; 

Aytoun and Stewart, Boswell, Blair. 

Kit North — the master of the feast — 
The Shepherd, and the Lad from Ayr 

Whose songs unite the west and east ; 



76 Wayside Poems 

And girdle all the world to-night 
With chords that make the nations one 

A mystic grip of matchless might — 
A cable-tow by genius spun. 

O genius ! Oracle of God ! 

We bow in wonder at his shrine, 
Through whom the daisy-sprinkled sod 

Is rendered human and divine. 

Tli rough whom each form of life appears 
To wear a brighter, holier grace ; 

His pity soothes the Mousie's fears, 
And halos dying Mailie's face. 

He sees his love in dewy flower, 
He hears her in the tunefu' bird ; 

He deifies the raptured hour, 
And seals it with an angel-word. 

He saw in man's uplifted face 
The promise of a grander time ; 

He sang the freedom of the race, 
He boldly rang the century's chime. 

The night was cold, he could not wait, 
He left his message at the door ; 

Ere morning came he took the gate — 
We worship, we can do no more. 

Ay, Robbie Burns, not poor but brave, 
Neglected long but loved at last ; 

The laurel-wreath Kilwinning gave 
Was foretaste of the fame thou hast. 



WITH HEARTY GRASP 

(On presenting a facsimile of the Declaration of Independence to Lodge- Canongate- 
Kilwinning, Edinburgh) 

Once more within these hallowed walls 
* "We celebrate our Laureate dear, 
Whose genius all the world enthralls, 

Whose love awakens festal cheer : 
For here the peasant ploughman stood, 

With daisies from the banks of Ayr, 
To make this spot a Holy Rood — 

An altar for each brother's prayer. 

But what shall one from o'er the sea 

With honor bring as offering meet; 
What voice or word from them to thee 

Which every heart will fondly greet; 
What theme shall young Columbia bear 

To swell the chorus of your song? 
Well, " Here's a hand, my trusty fier," 

With words that to the tune belong. 

Words born of Magna Charta brave, 

Along the banks of Runnymede : 
At Bannockburn, where freemen gave 

A bonnie cast to freedom's seed ; 
Conceived at far-off Marathon, 

At Salamis, Thermopylae ; 
Crowned in the heart of Washington, 

The noblest product of the free. 



78 Wayside Poems 

Immortal words ! The grandest strain 

That ever thrilled the onward van, 
Soul-stirring notes in symbols plain, 

Life's lofty creed— "A man's a man ; " 
Ay, Robbie Burns, that song of thine 

Narrows the seas and girds the world, 
And makes these walls a sacred shrine, 

Where faith and love shall be unfurled. 

So take the page your children wrote ; 

A common pride is yours and theirs ; 
Parents their children fondly quote, 

And w r eel-bred bairns their ain forebears: 
Love's cable-tow for evermore 

Binds gallant sire and sturdy son 
With hearty grasp from shore to shore, 

For Robert Burns and Washington. 




' CROWNED IN THE HEART OF WASHINGTON " 



COLUMBIA'S SON 

He stood beneath the crowning monument 

To Walter Scott in Eclinboro 1 town, 
A lad of six, our Malcolm, who had spent 

Scarcely a week 'raid Scotland's heather brown ; 
And, sighing, asked his mother every day — 
" Why don't they paint these houses, old and gray ?" 

For well he knew the Hudson's cheery shore, 
With golden sunsets flooding all the west ; 
Could lisp a bit of Rip Van Winkle's lore, 
And deemed his home an island of the blest ; 
So dear the homestead brook and crystal lake, 
We thought at first his little heart would break. 

And what to him was all the storied past, 

The rich romance which Scotia's children share? 
Too young to know the love that binds us fast, 
Which he some day will also proudly bear; 
He only saw dun walls and grayish sky 
To dim the blue of his bright laughing eye. 

Methought, therefore, an object-lesson now 

I'll give the boy, right here, upon the spot; 
Beneath the kindly, clear, uncovered brow 
Of him we love, our glorious Walter Scott ; 
I'll tell him why this lofty pile commands 
The reverent homage of far distant lands. 

I bade him look from base to towering spire, 
From flying buttress to dissolving line, 



82 Wayside Poems 

To crowded niches with their minstrel-choir. 

Whose living songs all hearts and lands entwine ; 
I thought to make full clear ere I began 
The greatness of the poet and the man. 

I had my points arranged to make them tell, 

The Trosachs, Tweed, and Forth in order due ; 
Highland and Lowland, crag and misty fell, 
Where beacons blazed and fiery crosses flew ; 
I summoned all the wealth at my command, 
And held my audience fairly by the hand. 

Enrapt he stood ; intently gazed on high — 

He seemed so small beneath that spire so great ; 
I thought to get " Don't know " as his reply, 
And then at large upon my theme dilate ; 

'T would take, forsooth, the best part of an hour 
To sketch the Wizard and his matchless power. 

" Now, listen, Malcolm," slowly I began — 
I didn't want the little fellow dazed — 
" Just think a moment : Do you know the man 
For whom this noble monument was raised V 
With answer worthy of Columbia's son 
He took it in, and said : " George Washington." 




" TO WALTER SCOTT IN EDINBORO' TOWN " 



THE PROTEST OF THE IMMORTALS 

(On a proposed tunnel in Princes Street, Edinburgh) 

A singular meeting the other night! 

Did you hear of it up at Parliament Hall ? 
Just twelve o'clock, the moon shone bright; 
A strange, weird brilliancy flooded all 

The rich-stained windows — the portraits there 
The spectral radiance seemed to share. 

I followed the crowd, a ghostly throng, 

A curious group of former days; 
As through the portal it surged along 
Familiar faces met my gaze ; 
As if the library down below 
Had yielded its worthies for public show. 

In close procession, a hundred or more ; 

But it seemed so strange, no voice or word, 
No footfall on the oaken floor; 
An old-time Provost proffered a word, 
A motion forsooth, for then and there 
Sir Walter responded and took the chair. 

He seemed full pale as he rose to speak 

And bowed his head to the eager crowd, 
But a flush forthwith illumed his cheek; 
Erect his form, which erst was bowed ; 
Intent on the Wizard seemed to be 
That quaint, peculiar company. 

I noted expressions of scorn and pride 
Yividly flashed from face to face; 



86 Wayside Poems 

The Minstrel clashed a tear aside, 

Appealing, forsooth, to the Scottish race ; 
Ay, more, each gesture seemed to be 
For his darling city a loving plea. 

I saw him point to the legend there 

Emblazoned upon the windows high ; 
To the crown that Scotia used to wear 
When her heroes dared to do and die; 
And he seemed to say, " Edina's crown 
Shall not for gold be trampled down." 

All hands went up at the table round, 

Where sat Kit North with flowing quill, 
And the sentences seemed to leap and bound 
Like living sparks from his sturdy will — 
A protest deep, a trumpet word 
Straight from the heart, for his soul was stirred. 

A moment's pause : they were asked to sign ; 

But who would lead that famous band? 
Who on the roll of Auld Lang Syne, 
Prince or peasant, thus dared to stand ? 
With one accord the gathering turns, 
And straightway summons Eobert Burns. 

He came and proudly wrote his name, 
The clear, bold hand beloved by all, 
And there seemed to burst a loud acclaim 
That shook the roof of the stately hall; 
His plain sign-manual seemed to say 
"We guard 'Auld Keekie' from wrong to-day." 

Shoulder to shoulder in steady file, 

I noted them all as they passed along — 
Dugald Stewart and stern Carlyle, 
Kiddell and Lockhart of Border Song, 
Professor Aytoun and dear John Brown, 
Brougham and Erskine in wig and gown; 



The Protest of the Immortals Sy 

Hugh Miller and Pollok, Mackenzie, Blair, 

Cockburn, Jeffrey, and David Hume ; 
Hogg and Kamsay — a curious pair; 
De Quincey, "Delta" in nom de plume ; 
Drumraond of Hawthornden, Bos well, Home, 
Fergusson, Alison— still they come. 

They stood in groups, the roll was done ; 

The chairman rose, they listened all ; 
St. Giles pealed out the hour of one, 

They took their way from the silent hall; 
Over the parchment alone I bent — 
It seemed like the League and Covenant. 

I read it there in the fading light, 

A message strange from the shadowy past; 
With storied names forever bright 

While Scotland's fame and glory last; 
The ink on that parchment shall never fade 
Till Arthur's Seat in the Forth is laid: 

"Stand by your city, and guard it well — 

That street is more than a common wynd 
For smoking chimneys and sooty smell; 
Has Plutus made your guardians blind? 
What god your senses has so beguiled 
That art and nature shall be defiled?" 

So said Kit North; and I read with joy — 
" Stand b}r your city, and guard it well ; 
For a mess of pottage or base alloy 
Who dare your birthright of beauty sell? 
Never! ah, never! Edina mine, 
Shall force or folly thy virtue tyne. 

"Stand by your city, and guard it well, 
Burrow in rocks for your tunnelled ways; 

Taint not the soil with carbon fell, 
The flowers or the sod where the sunlight plays." 



Wayside Poems 

No wonder the ball with wild applause 
Greeted the reading of every clause. 

" Stand by your city, and guard it well ; 

Greed is mighty, but truth prevails ; 
Let not your children's children tell 

How beauty was bartered for iron rails/' 
Such was the meeting in Parliament Hall. 
'•''Nemo immune!" Guard us all. 



TO A BRITHER CHIEL ACROSS THE SEA 

For thirty days I've been your debtor, 
Since I received your honor's letter; 
Henceforth I promise to do better, 

Excuse delay ; 
I ha'e been bound as wi' a fetter 

This mony a day. 

Not in the folds of fond caresses, 
Fair auburn locks and golden tresses, 
Or " withs " — the consulate confesses — 

Of stately cares ; 
But, on the knowledge he possesses, 

Respondent swears — 

And prays for grace and absolution, 
With full and ample restitution, 
The case admits of quick solution 

When Cadman learns 
The facts without circumlocution — 

I've been wi' Burns. 

I think your honor gets my meaning, 
The Court has always had a leaning 
To kindred spirit-souls convening, 

Their hearts to share : 
In brief, I've had a blithe careening 

Ayont the Ayr, 

Where stands the cottage of his birth, 
A sacred shrine for all the earth, 



90 Wayside Poems 

The humble room, the narrow hearth, 

With lesson wide, 
That love and faith and honest worth 

Shall aye abide. 

I traced the love-lit winding stream, 
Sweet monogram of passion's dream ; 
I seemed to hear the moonlight gleam 

In loving croon, 
As gently fell its fondling beam 

On bonnie Doon. 

I saw auld Alloway's roofless kirk, 

Where ling'ring "ghaists and houlets" lurk, 

Wi' Nannie glintin' through the mirk, 

Queen o' the ball, 
And Satan sitting like a Turk 

Amang them all. 

, Ay, more, I " lectured " down in " Killie," 

Where Fame still "canters like a filly," 
And cracked wi' lads that were na chilly, 

Till hours were sma', 
And time was measured by the gillie, 

Or no' ava. 

Straightway Auld Eeekie's storied street 
And Baxter Close in glory greet, 
Stair Number One, that stayed his feet, 

When first he came, 
To make Edina's page complete, 

And crown her fame. 

And then the last, but not the least, 
I wrote some lines for Robin's feast, 
Where " raising " isna done by yeast, 

But in a style 
Which Brothers brought frae " 'way down east," 

Fu' mony a mile. 




; STAIR NUMBER ONE THAT STAYED HIS FEET 



To a Brither Chiel Across the Sea 

Kilwinning Canongate they ca' it, 
Lodge Number Two, lang love befa' it, 
By genius "tiled," time canna thraw it, 

Till Nature sleeps, 
For Bobbie there was wreathed the Laureate 

With crown that keeps. 

I therefore trust the Court's decision — 
Waiving the forms of strict precision — 
Will grant reprieve for Love's omission, 

And draw it mild ; 
Wi' Burns and business in collision 

We're baith beguiled. 



93 




"i SAW AULD ALLOWAY'S ROOFLESS KIRK " 



TO A LADIES' ART CLUB 

{Accepting Invitation to Lectureon " Womanhood in Shakespean ") 

Some pleasant day 
In blooming May, 

Though rather late. 

Will suit for date. 

The classic song. 
That " art is long." 

Applies to this 

Protracted bliss. 

But Time, alas ! 
Just turns his glass, 

And months go by, 

As swallows fly. 

The sands run swift 
And gently sift 

Our locks with gray 

Ere close of day. 

'Tis surely right. 
And fitting quite, 

That Art should wait 

At Nature's gate. 

When summer showers 
Bring out the flowers. 

She then will greet 

Her sister sweet. 



To a Ladies Art Club 95 

But "Womanhood," 
As woman should, 

In dear Shakespeare 

Blooms all the year. 

Each flower that grows 
His garden knows, 

Immortal there 

In summer air. 

In every zone 

Their names are known; 

Their love and worth 

Enrich the earth. 

The Arden grove 
Breathes Ros'lind's love ; 

The pansy lives 

Ophelia gives. 

Miranda's isle 
Will ever smile, 

And roses bloom 

On Juliet's tomb. 

The woman-queen, 
Fair Imogen, 

Preserves his dream 

By Avon's stream. 

The sweetest flower 
In Belmont's bower 

Still speaks of thee, 

Dear Jessica, 

And Portia fair, 
Whose caskets rare 

Still tell the truth 

To heedless youth. 



g6 Wayside Poems 

Cordelia, too, 
So fond and true, 
Thy gentle word, 
Through centuries heard, 

Still stirs each heart 

To do its part, 

And bravely lead 
In word and deed. 

But song of ours 
Don't match the flowers. 
Ah, that the words 
Were humming-birds ! 

The lines are short 
To write this sort, 
So I will say 
" Good-bye " till May. 

But when you read 
This Shakespeare screed, 
Include, I pray, 
Ann Hathaway. 



THE SUNNY SOUTH 

I take mine ease in mine inn to-day, 

A lovely nook in the sunny south, 
How gently the clouds on the landscape iay 

Like dimples around a laughing mouth ; 
My host's kind greeting abideth yet, 

And a face that peered out through the flowers, 
Caught as it were in a tangled net 

Of roses that fell in softest showers : 
I picked the blossoms and have them still, 

I wonder if I will see her to-night ; 
Perhaps she would like a stroll to the mill, 

Or down by the lakeside clear and bright : 
It's a charming spot, and I think I'll stay — 
The landlord has such a winning way. 



NOBBY ISLAND, KIVEB ST. LAWRENCE 

You tell me you want a poem to-night, 
A yard and a half of visions bright, 
A Highland plaid for the Thousand Isles, 
A rainbow scarf of forty miles — 
Something worthy the fairy dream 
Of this rural Venice and sainted stream ; 
A modest request, when every morn 
Your Thousand Island poem is born. 

I sit by the rock where the waters laugh, 
But the Muse refuses her autograph; 
I mount to the summit of Pullman's tower, 
But the picture transcends the poet's power; 
In Carleton's hammock I fondly swing, 
But fail to find his magic ring ; 
And all, perhaps, because the real 
Just here is greater than the ideal. 

The same is true of the Hudson stream, 

Illumed with the light of fancy's dream ; 

But that is straightforward compared with this 

Kaleidoscope of enchanted bliss ; 

With her I have taken my poems straight, 

And never before have tempted fate, 

For rash the poet who dare bespeak 

A game with these islands at hide-and-seek. 

So let these wanderers lose their Avay 
'Mid sunny islands where echoes play ; 
Our words are whispers, the purest gold 
Is that which hearts of love enfold. 



Nobby Island, River St. L 



awrcncc 



The simplest lines hold richest truth; 
The sweetest lives enduring youth; 
Let these abide and sunlight smile 
For evermore on Nobby Isle. 



99 




m& 



m 



" WITH THESE ISLANDS TO PLAY AT HIDE-AND-SEEK " 



TO PROFESSOR JOHN STUART BLACKIE 

COMMEMORATING HIS EIGHTIETH YEAR 
{Bead at the Hellenic Society, Edinburgh, 1890) 

Dame Nature, communing with Coila one day, 
Remarked in a social, neighborly way, 
That she had been kept rather busy of late 
Attending to poets and matters of state ; 

That Robbie had closed up the century well, 
And Byron and Scott would hold out for a spell ; 
She was therefore inclined to take a vacation. 
And, on her return, to startle the nation ; 

Would visit, forsooth, Asia Minor and Greece, 
And lay out a plan for her great masterpiece. 
So she wandered unseen for a time among men, 
Returning about eighteen hundred and ten. 

Then straightway to Coila her way she betook. 
And found her ensconced in a bright cosey nook, 
"With swift-winged words her tale she began — 
I've found the essentials for making a man : 

The proper proportion of genius and art, 
Love, humor, and pathos, mind, body, and heart, 
With habiliments, too, that are fit for a king. 
Or better, for genuine princes that sing. 



To Professor John Stuart Blackie 101 

I met the nine Muses, who gave me a piece— 
A delicate web of the old Golden Fleece— 
Which they bade me to take far over the wave 
To bright sunny lands where magnolias wave; 

To a fountain of youth, Ponce de Leon by name, 
And I wandered for months without finding the same; 
The woes of Ulysses were nothing to mine, 
But I stayed by the Fleece as I promised the Nine; 

Till there in a wilderness, silent and vast, 
In a clear sparkling pool the token was cast; 
And lo, as I gazed, the Fleece took the form 
Of a mantle well woven for sunshine or storm. 

Be it Jason or Stuart, "Midlothian" still 
Is the brand of this Greek- Scotch -American twill; 
And, Coila, the laddie will never grow old 
Whose heart is enwrapped in this wondrous fold. 

From the east to the west, from the old to the new, 
From Helicon dry to Columbia's clew 
I have wandered at will; this staff in my hand 
Was found in the groves of fair Florida's land; 

Amid pines that embosom de Funiak Spring, 
Where poplar and laurel the poets outsing, 
Where children of Scotia in happiness dwell, 
By a fountain as sacred as St. Bonan's well; 

In gardens of lotus, with sunshine so clear 

That the centuries glide without noting the year: 

So, Coila, adieu! I go with the morn, 

Guard plaidie and staff for the genius unborn ; 

It may be a month, or it may be a day, 
Look well to the infant that's coming this way ; 
And, also remember, this mantle of joy 
Will keep its possessor forever a boy. 



THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD 

Hail, Canongate Kilwinning, hail 
Your Laureate bard frae Ettrick dale ! 
Pledge lang and deep wi' three times three 
The chief of fairy minstrelsie ! 

Wi' shepherd plaid o'er shoulder thrown, 
Erect, though sixty years have flown ! 
Gi'e us your hand, and hang your crook 
Right here within the organ's nook. 

Wi' ruddy cheek, as when of old 
Foregathering at the "Noctes"' fold! 
And see ! that e'e o' dancing glee 
Proclaims a " night" that bears the gree. 

Kit North, forsooth, or Aytoun there 
Will tak' again the honored chair ; 
Spread wide the board! "Ambrosian" food 
Shall grace the bard of Holyrood. 

We call wi' pride each storied name — 
The sacred bead-roll of our fame ; 
Come one and all ; we'll ha'e a " wake " 
To make the old Tron steeple shake. 

Don't startle at the Tiler's knock, 
You're safe as at St. Mary's Loch — 
You mind when first you saw the Light 
And gazed upon yon legend bright — 



The Ettrick Shepherd 103 

And when we had you " rigged " at last, 
Wi? " baubles " all behind you cast, 
You said, before the " work " began : 
"Noo, mind, lads, I'm a married man." 

Dear Jamie Hogg, you couldna said 
A funnier thing since you were wed; 
Those words throughout all Scotland went — • 
And Masons wondered what you meant. 

But let it pass. The days are lang 
Since we have heard the Shepherd's sang; 
The richest folds at Altrive yet 
Are fleecy clouds in purple set. 

Bright, glorious days among the hills ! 
Thy books a thousand dancing rills ! 
Brave nights of mirth as genius speels 
And " tak's the road " to Tibbie Shiel's ; 

Where old-time song and jest went round, 
And rafters rang with merry sound ; 
All silent now ! Nay ! fair and free 
Swells forth the Border Minstrelsie. 



So gi'e us a ballad again to-night — 
How witches flew o'er the sea-foam white ; 
Your midnight ride with the " Witch of Fife," 
A buxom dame and a sonsie wife, 

Who led her "gudeman" many a mile 
To the Bishop's casks of Merry Carlisle ; 
And left him there until rosy morn 
Found him asleep wi' an empty horn. 

"A modest tale, by my fay," said North — 
"It beats the 'Brig' across the Forth, 



104 Wayside Poems 

On a flying stick to skirl away, 
Like comets lost in the morning gray 



It makes one think that the ' Lion ' there 
Will drink some day of Loch Katrine fair, 
Springing away from the solid ground 
To the hills of Fife wi' a single bound ; 

Perchance upborne on loftier flight, 
Till yonder Crags are bathed in light, 
Or bright Orion's race is run, 
"We'll join the 'Pilgrims of the Sun.'" 

"Well said, Kit North — your wit is line, 
But prithee suggest a shorter line ; 
If Jamie once gets under way. 
He'll never ken the blink o' day. 

We'll join his ' Pilgrims of the Sun ' 
When we our mortal race have run" — 
Thus Aytoun spoke, and Lockhart smiled 
To find 'the "Sun" securely "tiled." 

Then Boswell thought, perchance " Queen Hynde " 

Might ha'e a chance to free her mind ; 

But Willie Hay set all ableeze — 

" Too near your trip to the k Hebrides !' " 

All took a part till Jamie turns 
Wi' twinkling eye to Kobbie Burns : 
" Perhaps they want a photograph 
That didn't make the 'critics' laugh. 

All in ' Poetic Mirror ' there, 
The very garb they used to wear — 
Byron and Wordsworth, Southey, Scott, 
At home within a shepherd's cot." 




"o'er far-aavay mountains its music is borne' 



The Ettrick Shepherd 107 

"Ay," answered Burns, "but the cot is wide 
That shelters the fairies o Ettrick side — 
And grander than castle its ' but and ben,' 
Where ' Bonnie Kilmeny gaed up the glen.' 

No foot of earth but a standing-place, 
Yet the poet's eye has heaven for space, 
And a fairy realm where thought is free. 
And ' Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.' 

And this was her home, and this is thine, 
As the years their threads of glory untwine ; 
For the vale she beheld is the Yarrow still, 
And the music she heard the tinkling rill ; 

And the sky she noted of thousand dyes, 
The morning that broke on the Shepherd's eyes; 
And the land of 'lakes and mountains gray' 
That soft in vision before her lay 

Was an open book, where the poet wrought 
A wondrous realm, a realm of thought — 
A world so pure, with voices clear, 
'Kilmeny' and he alone might hear. 

Immortal with her the poet dwells 
In Ettrick's and Yarrow's dowie dells, 
'Till the stars of heaven fall calmly away 
Like flakes of snaw on a winter day.' " 



So spake the lad f rae bonnie Ayr : 
"Kilmeny!" "Kilmeny!" was echoed there, 
As the Shepherd rose to the hearty call, 
And bound all hearts in loving thrall. 

The golden hours are well-nigh flown. 
But gi'e us a song that girds every zone, 



joS Wayside Poems 

Each "valley and glen and dell without name" 

" To woo a bonnie lassie when the kye comes hame." 

Ay, that is the human, my brother, you see, 
"Kilmeny" is sweet, but the "lassie" for me; 
Your " Bird of the wilderness," brightest e'er born, 
"Blithesome and cumberless," wakens the morn; 

Immortal while Yarrow wi' melody wide 

Bestows on the Ettrick its silvery tide ; 

"While Ettrick flows free to the Tweed and the sea 

That "Skylark" shall wake distant meadow and lea; 

O'er far-away mountains its music is borne 

To desolate hearts aweary and worn; 

To meadows and streams where the wanderer turns 

And dreams for a moment of Scotia's burns. 

Immortal! Ah, yes, the "Skylark" I know; 
Immortal " Kilmeny," with heart pure as snow ; 
" But teach me," said Kit, " what is dearer than fame- 
i To woo a bonnie lassie when the kye comes hame.' " 

A brave lesson, Jamie, we know it by heart, 
But gi'e us another, for brithers must part ; 
Ay, teach us but this, for the east is aflame. 
To find hearty welcome when we sC get hame. 




"and dreams for a moment OF SCOTIA s burns 



THE CLASS IVY 

{Yale, '67 — Twenty -fifth Anniversary) 

Committee on ivy in order; 

Mr. Chairman, I rise to report: 
A sprig of the old Scottish Border 

Was sent from Holyrood court, 
And we trust that some future recorder 

Won't say "Ivy isn't our forte." 

For twenty-five years we have waited 
And planted and watered anew ; 

Five times we have met and debated 
And pledged it in memory's dew ; 

And now, as the chairman has stated, 
We still have the ivy in view. 

Perhaps 'twas the choice of location, 
At the corner of Library Hall, 

And the ivy had divination 

That the structure some day would "fall' 

And, wise in its own generation, 
Suggested a sunnier wall. 



*o& v 



Perhaps the class-history curbed it 
That far-away evening in June ; 

Mayhap the class-singing disturbed it 

As the "boys" were not always in tune; 

Or else "Sixty-seven" perturbed it — 
Carved deep in the stone like a rune. 

Whatever the cause, it departed 
This life the } r ear it was born, 



1 1 2 Wayside Poems 

And the next one was also downhearted — 
Its neighbors laughed it to scorn ; 

The third one never got started 
We planted Triennial morn. 

So the figures alone in their glory 
Wore a sort of an epitaph smile, 

As if trying to tell an old story 

That wasn't perhaps worth the while; 

While other inscriptions were hoary 
With ivy that grew by the mile. 

The } T ears brought on our Sexennial ; 

We gathered that corner around, 
And hoped by the coming Decennial 

Our ivy at least might be found ; 
We came — a dry leaf — a perennial 

Just peeped from the desolate ground. 

Then the class to a man was united 
That something indeed should be done ; 

That the ivy at last should be righted, 
For patience finally won — 

A committee to victory plighted 
Straightway on its mission begun. 

They said that the matter was easy 
If the " clipping " was properly set ; 

Their general manner was breezy, 
As the job was happily let, 

And they laughed till the chairman was wheezy 
At the praise their committee would get. 

Ten years went by, and thereafter 
That committee was heavy with care, 

And instead of the chairman's laughter 
They sat with disconsolate stare, 

And gazed, so to speak, at a rafter, 

As they tried their " Report " to prepare. 



The Class Ivy 113 

And then, perhaps, you remember 

Another committee was made, 
And your chairman the following December 

A visit to Tarrytown paid, 
Where his hopes grew bright as an ember 

Whereon an old "bellows" has played. 

For an editor there was devoted 

To ivy, and knew of a vine 
On Sunnyside porch that was noted — 

From Abbotsford over the brine — 
To Irving from Scott, and I gloated 

To think how that ivy would twine ; 

That the Art Building niche would possess it 

And guard it with consecrate pride, 
And the sunlight forever caress it 

As it spread in luxuriance wide, 
And our grandchildren's children would bless it, 

And the glory of Yale would abide. 

He said it would have his attention, 

And I told him my mind was at rest ; 
That the class had been under a tension 

For years with ivy unblest — 
That night a modest class-pension 

Filled the dreams of that editor's guest. 

So the days went by vision-haunted, 

And life wore a happier smile, 
For the Scott-Irving tendril enchanted 

Was certainly growing in style; 
And your chairman, meanwhile, was transplanted 

To the ivy's original isle. 

Then one afternoon came a letter 
From "Wild" with a postmark in haste, 

That he somehow thought it was better, 
As there wasn't much time to waste, 



114 Wayside Poems 

To wait no more on our debtor 
"Who planted his "clippings" in paste. 

Alas ! Had that ivy miscarried ? 

Was the story the same as before ? 
I sprang for the stairway, nor tarried 

To shut the " Consulate " door ; 
I found a couple just married 

En route to Columbia's shore. 

They promised, with tears of emotion, 
To transport my ivy with care, 

And I wrote to a friend o'er the ocean 
To Sunnyside straight to repair; 

And I somehow now have a notion, 
As to ivy — you're blessed with a pair. 

If so, may they grow in affection, 
Like the brothers of long, long ago, 

Attaining to higher perfection 
As the years to eternity flow ; 

Abiding in love's recollection, 

When shadows the light overflow. 



TO "STRATHESK" 

It did me prood the " roose " you sent 
To Scottish friends in guid black prent ; 
The glowing lines wi' kindness brent 

Illume my desk — 
Love, wit, and pathos truly blent 

By " John Strathesk." 

I read the tribute o'er and o'er, 
Sae hale and hearty to the core, 
The loyal wishes that it bore 

Across the sea; 
The uttered word — and something more 

That blurs the e'e. 

Ay, such the magic of your pen, 
I saw the winding Esk again, 
Sir Walter's home and quiet glen 

At dear Lasswade, 
The resting-place of Hawthornden, 

Where last we strayed. 

I stood among the mountain-rills 
Of Wanlockhead and fair Leadhills — 
Again your speech the gathering thrills 

With worthy pride 
For Symington, whose genius fills 

The Lowthers wide. 



1 1 6 Wayside Poems 

What joy to breathe the caller air, 
To stand with reverent forehead bare 
By Allan Kamsay's portal there, 

Whose rich bequest 
Invites the world his love to share 

And be his guest. 

That ancient library had a " splore " 
Of eloquence ne'er heard before, 
Wi' loving links from shore to shore 

And Scottish sang ; 
The Hudson flowed beside the door, 

Or I am wrang. 

Full many a tome and antique book 
Upon the scene in wonder look ; 
A folio, hid within a nook, 

His neighbor nudged, 
And whispered till old Chaucer shook, 

And Johnson " fudged." 

One parchment that had been in pawn 
For centuries, faintly seemed to yawn ; 
A reverend doctor, full of brawn, 

Turned on his bier; 
He took it for the Judgment dawn, 

And asked the year. 

Chatham and Fox awoke at last, 

With trembling limbs and cheeks aghast ; 

They thought, forsooth, their votes to cast 

On pending bill ; 
The Speaker said a cyclone passed 

O'er Richmond Hill. 

Ah, if those worthies only knew 
That we were also of their crew, 
Our books, like guests in honored pew, 
On upper shelf, 



To " Strathesk " 117 

Perhaps they'd read the preface through, 
Ye ken yourself. 

But this I know: that summer day, 
From morning- gold to evening gray, 
Within one heart has come to stay 

While memory bides; 
Those velvet hills where shadows play — 

That ride of rides. 



A " four-in-hand " that swept the road 
From " water-meetings ' " sweet abode, 
To where the Nith in music flowed; 

By many a stream, 
All nameless now, but well bestowed 

In lingering dream. 

I see the kirk with carving old, 

With mouldering walls 'mid silent fold, 

The crumbling arch, the chancel cold, 

Of Durisdeer ; 
The storied tomb of Douglas bold 

Who knew not fear. 

How like a vision, yet how real 
Those golden hours upon us steal, 
With open hearts and hands that seal 

Rich friendships fast; 
The living shrines where memories kneel 

All else outlast. 

No pencil-ray of sunlight born, 
No bugle-blast of golden horn, 
No song of poet can adorn 

Or half portray 
The glory of that trip from morn 

To close of day. 



n8 



Wayside Poems 



Then take, " Strathesk," my warmest prayer- 
Guard Scotland's children everywhere, 
Her lads and lasses keep frae care 

For evermore; 
And favoring winds the message bear 

To Scotia's shore. 




'BY M.ANY A STREAM' 



BRETHREN ALL 

AT THE DEDICATION OF THE MASONIC HOME, UTICA 

( Tune — "America ") 

To brethren hale and free 
A line across the sea 

"We fondly throw ; 
A pledge to one and all 
Within our hailing-call ; 
Let love all hearts enthrall, 

And gladness flow! 

From out the centuries vast 
A ray of hope is cast — 

A beam divine : 
May Light that guides our way, 
"Which craftsmen true obey, 
On well-wrought work for aye 

In glory shine ! 

To shield from pain and care 
We build with faith and prayer 

A sure abode ; 
A refuge from the blast, 
When skies are overcast, 
And night is falling fast 

Upon life's road. 

A Home ! Ah, blessed word ! 
What memories are stirred! 
God guard it well ! 



120 Wayside Poems 

Thy smile upon our task, 
Great Architect, we ask, 
Till in Thy light we bask, 
And ever dwell ! 

The ashlars that we hew, 
And set with plummet true, 

Our labor here ; 
A living Temple grand, 
Not reared by human hand, 
But by Supreme Command, 

Shall there appear. 



"TO ANE AND A'" 

LODGE CANONGATE KILWINNING, EDINBURGH 

{Tune — " Good-night, and joy be with you a' ") 

Were distance compassed by a thought, 

Or oceans traversed by a dream, 
One certain star of glory wrought 

To-night upon my sight would gleam ; 
But oh, the severing sea is wide, 

And mony a weary night maun fa' 
Ere Frith of Forth or Firth of Clyde 

Shall greet the bard that's far awa'. 

Yet what recks love of time or space — 

I sit amang you once again, 
Ance more I hear the songs that grace 

The night o' nights, the Lodge o' men ; 
I know fu' weel the hearty grasp, 

The kindly word frae ane and a' ; 
My dreams no longer shadows clasp — 

The bard is nae sae far awa'. 

I hear the storied walls resound 

Wi' ringing words and notes of cheer; 
Once more I trace the sacred bound 

Of Burns and Hogg, our Laureates dear; 
Again the fond Old Organ thrills 

Wi' memories sweet that gently fa', 
And every eye wi' moisture fills 

For brithers near though far awa' ; 



122 Wayside Poems 



For lovers leal in distant lands 

Wha cherish still the hallowed shrine 
To Scotia wed by blended strands — 

A cable-tow of /Vuld Lang Syne; 
But whether near or whether far, 

A health to-night to ane and a' ; 
And here beneath yon central star 

"Wha says the bard is far awa' % 



TO AN EDINBURGH FRIEND 

With a piece of cornice from Victor Hugo's Library 

Accept with this a strip of hallowed wood, 

A moulding bright from Yictor Hugo's wall; 
A gilded bit where lingering fancies brood 

And burning words, which every heart enthrall. 
You gave to me, inset with faithful care, 

A tender keep-sake from yon humble room 
Of that sad bed which heard Burns' yearning prayer 

And crowning verse that pierced the gathering gloom 
No other song to all the world so dear; 

Hush ! round his couch the sorrowing muses kneel : 
"O wert thou in the cauld blast" lingers here — 

Those sheltering lines an amulet and seal: 
Ah ! emblems utter what we cannot speak, 
And voice our hearts when words are all too weak. 



IN FAITH 

The symbols die 
Of earth and sky — 

Time's sway is o'er; 
His starry seat, 
His coursers fleet 

Are seen no more. 

Like jewels cast 
Aside at last 

And worthless all, 
The shining spheres 
Dissolved in tears 

In darkness fall. 

But though they die 
In earth and sky, 

Yet God remains ; 
The shrivelled scroll 
But frees the soul 

From prison chains. 

A vapor cloud, 
An empty shroud, 

In chaos rides ; 
But He is sure, 
His Words endure, 

And Love abides. 

On wings of light 
That pierce the night 
To realms of morn, 



In Faith 125 

Keclothecl with sense 
Of life intense 
We mount reborn. 

We know not where — 
We wait in prayer 

The opening door; 
We know but this: 
In Him is bliss 

For evermore. 



THE ETERNAL 

Eternal Being ! Spirit ! God Supreme ! 

Father of all, revealed to every land, 
Where'er Thy starry heavens nightly gleam 

Thy wondrous power all nations understand. 
From out the hieroglyphs of yonder sky, 

The golden alphabet of fleeting time, 
We pluck vain symbols born to pass and die, 

Held for a moment in a poet's rhyme ; 
Yet idly futile every human thought 

To solve the mystery of enduring life — 
A truth to-day from our conception wrought 

Becomes a target in to-morrow's strife ; 

And all things pass ; the world a shifting stage 
Thyself alone unchanged from age to age. 



THE HARP OF TOM MOORE 

(At the Scotch -Irish Congress, May, 1889, Columbia, Tenn.) 

The top of the morning to Ireland 
And the Scotch-Irish Congress to-day ! 

All hearts respond at the banquet 

When the Harp of Tom Moore leads the way. 

The bells of the Shandon are ringing 

Their music from over the sea, 
But sweeter the Harp of her poet 

In the mountains of old Tennessee. 

The sons of the Shamrock and Thistle 

Still cherish the visions of yore, 
And the Harp of old Tara awakens 

Again to the voice of Tom Moore; 

Each string, with memories sacred, 

Is tuned to Liberty's key ; 
And the songs that float down the ages 

Are always the songs of the free. 

It sings of the " Exile of Erin, " 

But her exiles are exiles no more, 
For the Isle of old Erin has drifted 

Close under Columbia's shore. 

" Where liberty is, is my country " 

Has guided her over the way, 
And Columbia holds in her borders 

The heart of old Ireland to-dav. 



128 Wayside Poems 

Manhattan and Plymouth and Jamestown 
Can boast of their heritage true, 

But Mecklenburg's fame is immortal 
When we number the stars in the blue; 

The Scotch-Irish-Puritan Fathers 
First drafted the words of the free, 

And the speech of Virginia's Henry 
Is the crown of Our Liberty's plea. 

The sons and the grandsons of heroes 
Who fought for freedom and right 

With joy hail the dawn of the morning— 
" Mavourneen !" Awake to the light! 

The maidens of Lome and Killarney 
Are swelling the chorus to-day, 

For the castles of Oban and Blarney 
Are only just over the way. 

Then welcome, a thrice hearty welcome 

To legend ry, lyric, and lore, 
With a pledge and " Guid Hielan' welcome " 

To the voice and the harp of Tom Moore; 

A toast to the Shamrock and Thistle, 
And sunshine both sides of the sea, 

As Erin clasps hands o'er the ocean 
With Columbia in fair Tennessee. 



LOOK AT THE MOON, MY SWEETHEAKT 

Look at the moon, my sweetheart, 

Look at the moon with me, 
And you will be seeing your darlint, 

And I will be seeing thee ; 
The same bright moon of Killarney 

The distant Sierras see, 
The same round moon up yonder 

Looks down upon you and me. 

They say that she is nearest 

Of all the skyey train ; 
And we will hold her dearest 

Until we meet again ; 
For many a night, my sweetheart, 

Beneath her kindly gleam, 
We strolled by dear Killarney, 

And life was all a dream. 

So sweet your faithful letter, 

I know it all by heart ; 
Tt says you're coming for me, 

And we nevermore shall part; 
Her silver beams will guide you, 

Where'er you chance to be, 
As I wait by dear Killarney 

Your coming o'er the sea. 

The throb of hope is swifter 

Than morning's golden car, 
And the light of love that binds us 

Outshines the evening star; 





"BY DEAR KILLARNEY" 



The moon on dear Killarney 

A ladder rears for me, 
Up which the white-winged angels 

Shall bear my dreams to thee. 



So look at the moon, my sweetheart, 

Look at the moon with me. 
And you will be seeing your darlint, 

And I will be seeing thee ; 
The same bright moon of Killarney 

The distant Sierras see, 
The same round moon up yonder 

Looks down upon you and me. 



A BLARNEY ROMANCE 

She was the daintiest maiden 

You ever chanced to meet — ■ 
Her cheeks with roses laden, 

Her lips like cherries sweet ; 
We met at Castle Blarney 

One glorious summer morn — 
It chanced at dear Killarney 

That both of us were born. 

We found it out soon after, 

And this is how it came : 
Her eyes brimful of laughter, 

And brows too sweet to name, 
Just set my pulses Hying, 

And made me linger near; 
I said: "Perhaps you're spying 

The Blarney-stone, my dear.' 1 

For upward she was gazing 

Along the castle wall ; 
" I'll guide you, if it's plazing, 

For sure you're like to fall"; 
She answered, smiling swately : 

" Then catch me if you can " — 
And up the turret nately 

The little fairy ran. 

It's awfully provoking 

To take away one's breath, 

And then, with laughter choking, 
To say : " You'll be my death." 



Wayside Poems 

My heart was all a-flurry, 

As, pouting sweetly there : 

"To think you wouldn't hurry 

And help me up the stair."' 

The battlement seemed spinning' — 

Just whirling round and round ; 
Beneath her smile so winning 

I laughed at Cupid's wound ; 
I looked off on the valley 

And tree-tops far below, 
And couldn't keep the tally 

Of arrows from his bow. 

I spied the stone of magic 

A fathom down the wall, 
And then a distance tragic — 

Of thirty more to fall : 
An awkward situation — 

To hand a friend a "foot," 
And then — through gravitation — 

To leave an empty boot. 

Half dazed, I heard her saying: 

"It seems a trifle sheer, 
But if you're me obeying, 

I'll kiss the Blarney, dear." 
There wasn't time for waiting — 

The dainty, smiling elf 
Without a word's debating 

Went climbing o'er the shelf. 

And I was fondly clinging, 

As only love can cling, 
And she was gently swinging, 

As only fairies swing : 
She kissed the stone so smiling-^ 

I think I see her now ; 
She came up so beguiling, 

And said: "You do it now." 



A Blarney Romance 



] 33 



T heard the bells of Shandon 

Far off upon the Lee ; 
I said : " There's naught to stand on, 

And who will balance me?" 




" AT CASTLE BLARNEY 



I thought 'twould do by proxy, 
If she was well agreed ; 

She pled that "heterodoxy" 
Was not the Blarney creed. 



i 34 Wayside Poems 

We argued then the question 

Upon the castle wall ; 
And held an extra session 

Till twilight 'gan to fall ; 
Strange people came and vanished, 

And wondered at the pair — 
That seemed like tourists banished 

From Cook's or Gaze's care. 

My heart, like liquid leaven, 

"Was ready then to pour, 
And I was nearer Heaven 

Than Pyramus of yore ; 
The light of love around us 

That glorious summer day 
In golden meshes bound us, 

And "Thisbe" came to stay. 

And so at Castle Blarney 

We learned each other's name, 
And found from old Killarney 

That both in childhood came ; 
The bells of Shandon clearer 

Upon the evening fell, 
Our hearts were drawing nearer, 

Our lips — I must not tell. 

The long discussion ended, 

The "proxy" was maintained— 
Two souls in rapture blended, 

The Blarney point was gained; 
Then down the stairway spiral 

We wound with little haste, 
Like lovers of the Tyrol, 

In tenderness encased. 

So now, if dear Killarney 
Would see our "likes" again, 



A Blarney Romance 135 

We'll send a pair from Blarney — 

Say one of u six" and "ten"; 
It may be " heterodoxy," 

But when Ave' re all alone, 
I do it still by proxy — 

And kiss the Blarney-stone. 




A MORNING AT GLENGARIFF " 



AT GLENGAKIFF 

Sweet strains abide in music, 
And oft in memory play : — 

The rhythm of Glengariff, 
The flow of Bantry Bay. 



Some words are like to poems 
With chords that come to stay 

Our hearts embrace Glengariff, 
And cling to Bantrv Bav. 



Glengariff 137 

They seem to blend together 

As if they knew the way : 
'Twas long ago Glengariff 

First smiled on Bantry Bay. 

Then coyly glanced in beauty 

Bedecked with pearly spray : — 
The bridal-robed Glengariff 

Beloved by Bantry Bay. 

And so some poet wed them 

To live in song for aye: — 
The wooing of Glengariff, 

The joy of Bantry Bay. 

A honeymoon of beauty, 

An Eden every day, 
A morning at Glengariff, 

A night on Bantry Bay. 



POMPEII AT EVENING 

City entombed and sadly desolate, 

What echoes haunt thy resurrected walls! 
Strange phantoms flit of that remorseless date 

When lurid night engulfed thy stately halls. 
We cross thy porch, and by a single bound 

Span the wide chasm of two thousand years ; 
We trace the life, and almost hear the sound 

Of joy and laughter hushed by sudden fears : 
And now, as evening falls, fond lovers stray 

And dream the same old dreams thy daughters knew, 
■While fancy broods and silent shadows play 

Round crumbling columns dank with mouldering dew. 
Such eyes light Eden-land where'er they be, 
And make, Pompeii, Paradise of thee! 



THE TBAFALGAR LION 

Perhaps you remember the lion there, 
Some years ago in Trafalgar Square ; 
A sturdy lion, sound and hale, 
* That never once had wagged his tail: 
Above Northumberland House it sate, 
And mounted guard in solemn state. 

A humorous traveller came one day, 
And stopped, in wonder, across the way, 
Looking up, with astonished air, 
At the royal beast in his lofty lair: 
In a minute or two a dozen or more 
Halted to pluck the mystery's core. 

Till straightway assembled an anxious crowd, 
And the traveller finally muttered aloud: 
" I see ; it wags its tail." All stared ; — 
The gathering mass the wonder shared : 
The stranger watched his chance to go, 
But dropped around in an hour or so — 

To find a wild and angry throng. 
Pushing and 'jostling, ten thousand strong, 
In one concentrated upward stare : 
" It does," " It doesn't " fill the air ; 
Policemen rally and shout in vain — 
Their " billets " fall like summer rain : 

" Fix bayonets !" The soldiery stand 
Obedient to the stern command. 



142 Wayside Poems 



The mass dispersed. The tale went round 
The "wag" was there, but never found. 
Pick out the moral as you may — 
The crowd is ready any day. 



THE DEMORALIZED POET 

(A la Sennacherib) 

The poet came down with his sonnets unrolled. 
And cheek more superb than the gay marigold ; 
While the glance of his eye was as brilliant to see 
As the Tarrytown beacon on old Tappan Zee. 

As genial and breezy as spring-time he came, 
With forehead all bared for the garland of fame ; 
As solemn and sad as an equinox day 
The glow on his visage soon faded away. 

For the editor breathed on his manuscript there, 
And withered the daffodils comely and fair ; 
Till his vision of laurels grew pale as the ghost 
Of a yesterday's fog on the New Jersey coast. 

And there lay the ballad by fancy devised 
On the table before him, neglected, despised, 
Every figure discarded that ecstasy wrought, 
With pearls from the depths of profundity brought. 

And there sat the poet with dull, vacant stare 
As the kinks and the curls straightened out of his hair; 
Till the heart that once gushed with deep anguish was wrung 
For his sonnets unprinted, his lyrics unsung. 

And far-distant maidens are loud in their wail. 
As their minstrel returns, all shattered and pale ; 
Yet, deep in their hearts, for all their ado, 
They wish a waste-basket might swallow him too. 



TO THE SCOTCH-IRISH CONGRESS 

ATLANTA 
( With a Sprig of White Heather— May 7, 1892) 

A bit of bonnie white heather, 
And greetings, Atlanta, to thee ! 

Where the Scotch-Irish Congress forgather 
To-day in the land of the free. 

From the heart of old Scotia's mountains 
It speaks of your fathers and mine, 

With a "health" to Georgia's clear fountains 
And dew from the land of the pine. 

Though the blossom that speeds as a token 
May wither and fade by the way ; 

Love's white-winged whisper once spoken 
Floats wide and endureth for aye. 

As the pollen-dust seeks the fair petal 

Of roses on meadow and lea, 
So a strain of the old Gaelic mettle 

May wander in music to thee. 



PAGANINI'S VIOLIN 

PRESERVED IN THE PALAZZO DEL MUNICIPIO, GENOA 

Ay, give the bow again to faltering hand, 

And place the violin against his breast ; 
As loving friends in sorrowing silence stand 

And faintly hear the master's last request. 
In rapture fond behold the swelling tide 

Sweeps from his heart along the trembling strings, 
As if to greet the heavenly arches wide 

With chords of joy upborne on angels' wings. 
No farewell vision in the world so dear, 

Or dying transport fraught with wond'rous power; 
That sky-lark note from out the welkin clear 

Becomes, fair Genoa, thy richest dower. 
Guard well the sacred strings and silent frame, — 
Sweet cenotaph of Paganini's fame. 



DREAMLAND AND LOVELAND 

Near our dreamland lies a loveland, 
Ever fresh and fair with flowers; 

We can see it from our dreamland — 
Soon the loveland will be ours. 

There's a cottage in that loveland 
Porch-embowered with trellised vine ; 

Sweet the vision from our dreamland — 
Round its windows roses twine. 

Lead me gently through the dreamland, 
That I may no longer roam; 

Guide me safely to the loveland — 
For I long to rest at home. 

Where the breath of tender blessing 
Sweetens duty bravely done ; 

Care beguiled by fond caressing — 
Dreamland, Loveland — all in one. 



SO SWEET THE DREAMS 

So sweet the dreams that speak of thee. 
Fain would I slumber all the while — ■ 
At rest within thy gentle smile, 

Where love is all the world to me. 

A blissful realm wherein we learn 
Fond lessons life can never teach ; 
For dreams are but the thoughts that reach 

From earth to heaven and then return ; 

Bright angel-ladders that uprear 
Their summits to the shining stars, 
Adown whose rounds of silver bars 

Float footsteps from the silent sphere. 

Kind spirits guard us as we sleep, 
And guide us through each coming day, 
And teach us, Father, how to pray, 

And pure and true our souls to keep. 



SMILE AND WAIT 

Would to-day were now to-morrow, 

And to-morrow yesterday — 
Three days folded up together, 

In Time's basket laid away ; 

For there's one that waits my coming, 

Under fair and sunny skies, 
And I'm yearning for the sunlight 

Of her sweet and loving eyes. 

Change the hour-glass into minutes! 

Let the white sands swiftly glide, 
Till our hands are clasped together, 

And our hearts beat side by side. 

Let bright birds convey the message 
To the blossoms of the South, 

And love's light-winged gentle breezes 
Waft my kisses to her mouth. 

Haste sweet dreams on rays of moonlight, 
Whisper gently — smile and wait, 

Till the hours and days are counted 
When I'll meet her at the gate. 



OF AGE 

(1866-1887) 

The stars are fading in the gray, 

Faint rosy light proclaims the morn. 
Awake, my love, for love to-day 

Recalls the hour our love was born. 
How like a dream where memories play 

Since winsome lips were fondly kissed, 
So swift the seasons glide away 

When loving hearts keep faithful tryst : 
And yet the figures on life's page, 

From Sixty-six to Eighty-seven, 
Declare our love is now of age — 

Just twent} r -one — since Home and Heaven 
Were twinned within those loving eyes 
Which led my soul to Paradise. 



LOVE'S LITANY 

Sweet the rose on flowery lea, 
Sweet the sunlight on the sea, 
Sweeter still your glance to me — 
I love you. 

Fonder than when evening lies 
In the lap of summer skies 
Is the language of your eyes — 
I love you. 

Bright the voice of ruddy morn 
Answering to the bugle-horn, 
Brighter still since you were born- 
I love you. 

Dear the love-songs of the past, 
Dear the dreams of love that last, 
All " Love's Litany " thou hast — 
I love you. 



IN WHISPERS 

A song came floating from out the sky; 
When asked to stay, it answered, "Why?" 

" A New-Year verse for one most fair," 
I spake with joy. It answered, "Where?" 

I whispered low. The song sped by — 
" Not sweet enough for her am I ;" 

" An angel voice I'll go and £et." 
The poet sighed, and waiteth yet. 



THE CENTUEY'S SONG 

One note from out the centuries vast, 

Which he who lists to-day may hear; 
One word on Judah's waters cast, 
With widening circle year by year; 
One song that thrills the patriot van — 
The crowning brotherhood of man. 

'Twas this the peasant poet sung, 

By bonnie Doon and winding Ayr, 
To that dear harp by Coila strung, 
Whose music floats prophetic prayer — 
A choral link from shore to shore, 
Of man to man the world o'er. 

No grander utterance — " Man to man !" 

Behold the Century's living voice! 
Those simple words the ages span ; 
The nations listen and rejoice; 

The Ploughman bard of Scottish blood 
Proclaims the song of brotherhood. 

Our fathers struggled to be free — 

We have the freedom that they wrought ; 
For lofty faith and liberty 

Brave martyrs died and heroes fought — 
" Nemo Impune " sternly sealed 
On many a fierce and bloody field. 

We know by heart each hallowed name, 
Each rugged pass by valor trod, 




"liar ' 

" THROUGH YONDER CLOUDS BEHOLD THE RIFT " 



The Century s Song 155 

The Bannockburns baptized to fame 
By men who spurned the tyrant's rod ; 
Who scorned to wear a conqueror's chain, 
"Who knew their rights and dared maintain. 

As men who climb a mountain height 
By tortuous path and slippery steep, 
O'ertaken by the darkling night 

And driving blasts that round them sweep, 
Behold with joy the purpling morn, 
And wake the crags with bugle-horn ; 

So up the slope through rack and mist 

Proud Scotland holds her steadfast way 
To granite peaks by sunlight kissed, 
While drifting clouds below her lay ; 
No pioneer more bold and true 
Beneath the heaven's arching blue. 

Till now from heights securely reached, 

With freedom sown in every soil, 
And wasteful war's red banner bleached 
On sunlit fields of honest toil, 
Hark to the strain : " All war shall cease " — 
St. Andrew's song of love and peace. 

The charity that knows no bound 
Is freedom's gift to every land; 
The richest gold in quarry found 
Or fairest pearl on ocean strand 
Is naught to Saxon freedom now — 
The noblest crown on human brow. 

And Saxon brotherhood to-day 

Means brotherhood all round the world ; 
No restless realm would dare gainsay 
The edict of their flags unfurled ; 
A million soldiers useless then 
Amid the Parliament of men. 



156 Wayside Poems 

Through yonder clouds behold the rift — 

The hour is ripe, the morn is nigh, 
The darkness fades, the nations lift 
Their foreheads to a fairer sky ; 

Above the Twentieth Century's door — 
"The nations shall learn war no more." 

O fairest Queen! whose smiles entrance — 

Columbia ! born of noble sires, 
With youthful vigor in thy glance, 
And hope that every land inspires, 
Thy mountain chains and rivers free 
Proclaim thy power from sea to sea. 

Thine be that power to guard and bless 

The millions vast who toil and wait, 
Till man no longer shall oppress, 
But Justice rule at every gate: 

One law, one love, one crowning good — 
The Century's song of brotherhood. 



THE HOMESTEAD WELL 

Again beside the Homestead Well, 

And moss-grown bucket 'neath the trees, 
With trickling drops that, bead-like, tell 

My prayers unto the passing breeze; 
I hear them pattering one by one 

In purling music as of old, 
When blithely rose the morning sun 

And sprinkled hill and dale with gold. 

I gaze upon the threshold there, 

The doorway that my mother knew — 

A happy group of faces fair 

Refills the frame of antique hue; 




" THE MEADOW-WALK IS STILL THE SAME " 



158 Wayside Poems 

The sloping roof seems nearer now, 

Endeared by dreams that reached the skies, 

Fond memories gather as I bow 

And greet the past with moistened eyes. 

The meadow-walk is still the same, 

Familiar flowers befringe the path; 
They seem to speak my sister's name 

In childhood's golden aftermath ; 
The gray rail-fence has been replaced, 

But in the picture that I see 
The coloring is not effaced — 

It all remains the same to me. 

Again the orchard ladders lean 

Against the trees of long ago, 
While eager hands the fruitage glean — 

Bright "gillyflowers" of ruddy glow, 
Round " rattle-apples," plump and red, 

To which I listened when a boy — 
Ah, even then was sweetness wed 

To beauty in a fleeting joy. 

Yon quiet lane where once I strayed 

Invites me to the wooded crest, 
Through fields and meadows where I played 

With nature as a welcome guest ; 
I see the open bars again, 

Near which the flock was wont to sleep, 
And years roll back as up the glen 

I hear the scurrying of the sheep. 

Ah, far-off pictures ! gazing still 

Into the magic mirror here, 
I dream of mead and rippling rill, 

Yet find the Homestead Well most dear; 
Its swinging bucket fondly glows, 

A swaying pendulum of light, 
A happy horologe that throws 

No shadow on its dial bright. 




"again the orchard ladders lean" 

But wide* visions meet my gaze — 

I trace the glorious Hudson now, 
Her lofty crags and crystal bays, 

Whose beauty crowns Columbia's brow ; 
I muse beside the Northern lakes 

Where braided streams in music flow — 
Again o'er far Sierra breaks 

The morn to tint her peaks of snow. 



I dwell amid Edina's towers, 

And wander down the banks of Ayr, 
By winding Avon gather flowers, 

Westminster's proudest trophies share; 
I tread old Haarlem's stately halls. 

And float upon the Zuyder-Zee — 
Along the Rhine, whose ivied walls 

And vine-clad hills breathe liberty. 



160 Wayside Poems 

wayside wanderer ! Yonder sky. 
Reflected here in mirror true, 

]S r o rival knows, though far and nigh 
Thy feet have brushed the morning dew 

But something in this liquid light 
Recalls those dear Parisian days, 

Riviera's noontide clear and white, 
Mentone's cliff and sunlit bays. 

Sweet Naples, terraced to the sky, 

Milano's poem hung in air, 
Ravenna's gates that time defy,' 

Verona dear and Florence fair; 
Proud Venice, holding once the key 

Of commerce as it journeyed west, 
The "swan-like" city of the sea, 

Asleep upon a tideless breast. 

Como! of mountain lakes the queen! 
Lucerne the king! Behold them now! 

1 see her crown of emerald green, 
The glacier diamonds on his brow ! 

Geneva! guardian of the brave. 

Where exiled freedom found a home; 
And there above the Caesar's grave 

In glory still — eternal Rome. 

How wide the circle sweeps aw r ay 

From this fond centre of the heart, 
From meadows green to cities gray, 

From waving fields to crowded mart; 
Like weary doves our thoughts return 

Again unto the homestead ark — 
Across the wastes our spirits yearn 

Ere twilight slips into the dark. 

Dear Homestead Well, thy mirror fair, 
Deep-set within its stony frame, 

Reflects the joy, illumes the care, 
The weary steps by which we came: 



The Homestead Well 



161 



The mountain trails that seemed so steep 
No mortal foot might find its way, 

Where faith and lofty genius keep 
Their star-lit journey to the day. 

O far-off, tranquil, peaceful days, 

Ere life becomes a hurrying stream, 
"While yet the gentle brooklet plays 

And to the pebbles sings its dream ; 
These later scenes cannot replace 

The pictures that I know full well, 
And in my inmost heart I trace 

What youth and love alone can tell. 

O colors born of morning dew 
That canvas never yet has seen ; 

No other skies are half so blue, 
No other meadows half so green ; 




W^ul'kjfex 



" BESIDE THE NORTHERN LAKES " 



162 Wayside Poems 

I hold and keep in memory dear 

The days and dreams that would not stay, 

The summer days then seemed a year, 
And now the years seem but a day. 

So here, entranced in gentle spell, 

I wait again with trusting heart 
To let the magic mirror tell 

The story that it would impart; 
For not alone in retrospect, 

But faithful yet to loving eye, 
Its crystal waters still reflect 

The sunlight of a cloudless sky. 



THE GLOAMING 

A wish at close of day, 

The evening waits ; 
A hope, a morning ray 

From eastern gates: 

A bright and sunny spot 

Along the stream ; 
A quiet sheltered grot 

Where we can dream : 

A window looking west 
Towards sunset gold, 

Bespeaking gentle rest 
When we are old : 

A glow in yonder sky 

When shadows creep, 
And love's soft lullaby 
Inviteth sleep : 

A hand to clasp in ours 

With pressure dear; 
And then — some simple flowers 

With friendships near : 

A good-night gloaming kiss, 

Life's day complete ; 
A lingering hour of bliss 

Where twilights meet. 



LIFE'S PAUSES 

A curious stranger environed in doubt, 
An interrogation-point toddling about, 
A bundle of questions — nothing more — 
Cooing and creeping upon the floor. 

A comma of sunshine, a playtime to see 
The flower, the bird, the brook, and the tree ; 
A vision of childhood — count one for the pause- 
A ripple of laughter, a golden clause. 

A stile in the pathway, a summer day, 
A blissful moment too sweet to stay ; 
Swift semicolon of youth divine — 
Count two in tracing the raptured line. 

An exclamation — " You ! O You !" 
The same old story, forever new, 
An arrow's flight to a soul new-found, 
A volume of love in a vowel-sound. 

A song, a prayer, a marriage vow, 

A compound word in the chapter now, 

Only a hyphen, but angels wait 

And hush their anthem in heaven's gate. 



er 



A gleam of light in the gliding years, 
A colon of joy in the font appears, 
A point of hope in the fleeting text — 
Our line continued in the next. 



Lifes Pauses 165 

The sentence finished, a gentle mound 
By waving grass encircled round ; 
A period here, but not complete- 
Merely a rest for weary feet. 

A rest for the night till the morning wakes, 
Till the purpling east in glory breaks ; 
Faith writes a dash for the great TO-BE— 
Beyond Time's bracket — Eternity. 



THE END 



OLD HOMESTEAD POEMS 



WALLACE BRUCE 

Illustrated, pp. x., 168. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2 00. 
(Uniform in size, etc., with " Wayside Poems.") 

CRITICAL OPINIO XS OX THE BOOK: 

Pleasant verses of domestic scenes and stirring lines of the patriotic days of the 
past. . . . All of these poems have the true ring about them. The lighter verses 
of Mr. Bruce have their special quality, and are sprightly and graceful from the 
lightness of touch. — N. Y. Times. 

Mr. Bruce writes in ringing verse or simple, tender lines of the landscapes that 
are dear to him, of the people whom he loves, of home, and of country. He appeals 
to what is noble and true in human nature. — Boston Post. 

The poems are marked by their quaintness of style and expression, and will fully 
interest poetic readers. They are patriotic, home-loving, wrong-hating, in which 
the reader will find the grandest truths. — Chicago Inter-Ocean. 

A volume of short, tender, and beautiful poems. They have in them genuine 
poetry, pure patriotism, friendship, love, and faith. They are the kind of poems 
which one loves to read, and from the reading of which he arises full of good 
thoughts and noble purposes. — Christian Advocate, Pittsburg. 

Mr. Bruce writes with ease and invariable metrical correctness. . * . Spirited in 
style and patriotic in tone. — N. Y. Sun. 

There is always room for a poet of "occasions." Like Dr. Holmes, Mr. Wallace 
Bruce is one of this indispensable brotherhood. . : . A cheerful father, the love of 
home and children breathes through these lyrics. — Philadelphia Ledger. 

Contains an ample allowance of spirited and interesting verse, most of which 
deals with realistic themes in fluent and often forcible and picturesque manner. 
Mr. Bruce's diction is always crisp and strong, and his versification fluent and 
musical. . . . There is an abundance of homely force and homely inspiration that 
appeal pleasantly and attractively to the reader. The volume is copiously and finely 
illustrated. — Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. 

The poems are very unaffected and tender — very simple and musical in their 
rhythm. . . . All of them are graceful in sentiment, often rising to deeplv pathetic 
strains. — Zion's Herald, Boston. 

This collection should be found in every homestead. — Philadelphia Press. 

All written in verse that is fluent, and that not infrequently touches poetic 
heights. — Philadelphia Telegraph. 

Appeals to popular sympathies and awakens old memories. The poems are 
marked by simplicity and directness both of sentiment and of diction, and these 
qualities insure a wide appreciation. — Courier, Boston. 



2 Old Homestead Poems 

The poems are characterized by a home spirit of love, tenderness, and simplicity. 
— Minneapolis Tribune. 

A handsome quarto of the holiday description, on a great variety of subjects, 
patriotic and other, with interesting and fine illustrations. — Brooklyn Eagle. 

His patriotic verses are warm with genuine feeling. — Critic, N. Y. 

The author is evidently a man of much poetic lore. He excels in the affections- 
The illustrations are numerous and very handsome. — N. Y. Telegram. 

An eloquent book, one of the most entertaining of the holiday season, and every 
poem will be read in it more than bnce. — Poughkeepsie Eagle. 

Everything that he does embraces true feeling, couched in melodious and often 
thrilling stanzas. — Rochester Democrat and Chronicle. 

" The Land of Burns " is a sweet poem, a delight to the reader, a worthy 
tribute to the greatest of Scotland's bards. — Benson J. Lossixg. 

A sweet essence of poetry pervades it all. Every line teems with sips of honey 
culled from the sweet flowerings of Burns's genius. — Homer B. Sprague. 

I have read your verses with great pleasure. They are very easy, fluent, lively, 
and well compacted. ... I thank you most cordially for your pretty book, and wish 
you as many returns of the New Year as may be welcome visitors. — Oliver Wen- 
dell Holmes. 

I have read your "Land of Burns," "The Hudson," and "The Yosemite," with 
much interest and pleasure. ... I think you have very successfully carried out your 
idea of the Cathedral. — Henry W. Longfellow. 

Hearty thanks for thy excellent poem, printed in style worthy of its fine and 
fitting verses. . . . Everything about Burns interests me. I have never heard him 
too highly estimated, and, as a true poet, I do not see how he can be. — John G. 
\Yhittier. 

I congratulate you on issuing such a charming volume. It will be thankfully 
received by every lover of Burns. I thank you as one. . . . "The Hudson River" 
is worthy of being celebrated in verse, and you have touched the strings with melo- 
dious results. . . . "The Yosemite," by its merit and beauty, made its way to all 
eyes, ears, and hearts ; . . . there may be many, I take it, who will carry your lines 
with them as they seek out these places and adopt them as their own. — Henry 
"Ward Beecher. 

Your lovely little book came duly from the publishers, and was read, as all things 
are that come to me from your hand and heart, with great pleasure. ..." The Old 
Homestead " is lovely as a dream, and good as gold ; better, it will stay among the 
household treasures safe and sure, and be treasured by the children's children, who 
will say the poet was my grandpa's friend. — Robert Collyer. 



Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

The above work is for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers, postaye prepaid, 
to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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